Florence  in  the  Poetry  of 
the  Brownings 


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http://www.archive.org/details/florenceinpoetryOObrowrich 


LO/l        VJ  L.  HJ  1  ■ 


XXUliiU      \Jl 


X 


Robert  and  Elizabeth  Bar- 
rett Browning  from  1847 
to  1861.  Corner  of  Via 
Magjjio  and  Via  Mazzetta. 


*'  y  lunnl  Idtit  iiit/hf  <i  /if/li-  child  tjo  sini/in;/ 
"* Neath  C(ti«i  (I'liidi  iriii<i(nr.s,  hi/  the  rhurrh.^" 

—  Casft  GiiitH  Windows,  p.  22. 

"  I  ittcjtpcd  out  on  fht   iKirniir  ftrnin ,  l>in/t 

Over  the  street  <ind  ofi/mslfi'  tin  rhiirr/i. 

And  pared  its  loten(fe-l>rirkiri)rk  s/irinkled  ronl." 

—  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  p.  181. 


Florence 

in  the 

Poetry  of  the  Brownings 

Being  a  Selection  of  the  Poems  of 

Robert  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

Which  have  to  do  with  the  History,  the  Scenery 
and  the  Art  of  Florence 

Edited  by 
Anna  Benneson  McMahan 


With  over  Sixty  Full-page  Illustrations 
from  Photographs 


>      J      ,      ^      J  3 
>         ^     ,  ,  '       ,   V 


Chicago 
A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1904. 


^^s 


^y 


Copyright 

A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co. 

1904 

Published  October  5,  1904 


With  four  exceptions,  the  photographs  reprmiuced  in  this  work  are 
from  the  atelier  of  the  Brothers  Alinari,  Florence,  and  are  used  by 
special  arrangement  with  their  approval  and  consent.  The  "  Casa 
Guidi,"  the  "Carmine  Cloister,"  and  the  "  Book-Stall  in  Piazza  San 
Lorenzo"  are  by  ISIiss  Una  McMahan;  the  "Piazza  and  Church  of 
San  Lorenzo"  Is  by  Mauelli,  Florence. 


•        • 


THE    UNIVERSITY    PRESS,   CAMBRIRGE,   D.  S.  A. 


f^p_ 


r    ^' 


t- 


TO 

ANNIE    HOWELL    ANNIS 

LOVER    OF    FLORENCE 
AND    OF 

BROWNING 


ivi89189 


\  h 


y 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Introduction 13 

BY  ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING 

Casa  Guidi  Windows 21 

The  Dance 99 

BY  ROBERT  BRO WNING 

Old  Pictures  in  Florence 105 

Fra  Lippo  Lippi 121 

Andrea  del  Sarto 137 

The  Statue  and  the  Bust 149 

The  Ring  and  the  Book.    Book  I 163 

One  Word  More 217 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Casa  Guidi  Windows Frontispiece 

Bridges  of  the  Amo To  face  page  24 

Monument  to  Giuliano  de'  Medici „  »»     26 

New  Sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo 

Monument  to  Lorenzo  de'  Medici „  »>     28 

New  Sacristy  of  San  Lorenzo 

Martyrdom  of  Savonarola „  „    30 

Museum  of  San  Marco 

Statue  of  Savonarola „  »     32 

Palazzo  Vecchio 

Cell  of  Savonarola „  n    34 

Museum  of  San  Marco 

Church  of  Santa  Maria  Novella „  »    36 

Fresco  of  Inferno,  by  Andrea  Orcagna „  »    38 

Strozzi  Chapel  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 

Madonna „  „    40 

Rucellai  Chapel  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 

Crucifixion,  by  Margheritone „  ,,42 

Church  of  Santa  Croce 

Portrait  of  Pra  Angelico „  „    44 

Academy  of  Fine  Arts 

The  Pitti  Palace „  „    46 

Loggia  dei  Lanzi „  »    48 

Monument  to  Dante »  «    50 

Church  of  Santa  Croce 

[ix] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Fresco  of  Dante To  face  page  53 

Bargello  Chapel 

Gate  of  San  Niccolb „  »      54 

Gate  of  San  Gallo „  „     56 

Bust  of  Brutus „  „     58 

Bargello 

Piazza  in  the  Cascine „  „     60 

View  of  Florence „  »     62 

Campanile,  with  Cathedral  and  Baptistry   .     .     .     .     „  „     66 

Portrait  of  Michel  Angelo „  »     68 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Portrait  of  Raphael  Sanzio „  »     72 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Portrait  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci ,,  »     74 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Statue  of  Niobe ,  »     80 

Uffizi  Gallery 

The  Dying  Alexander „  „     84 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Portraits  of  Cimabue,  Giotto,  and  Taddeo  Gaddi  .     .     „  »     88 

SpaDish  Chapel  of  Santa  Maria  Novella 

Statue  of  Niccola  Pisano „  ,,92 

Portico  of  Uffizi 

Portrait  of  Ghiberti „  ,,94 

Palazzo  Vecchio 

Portrait  of  Ghirlandajo „  ,,100 

Santa  Maria  Novella 

Portrait  of  Botticelli „  ,,102 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Portrait  of  Filippino  Lippi „  „   106 

Uffizi  Gallery 

Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  by  Lorenzo  Monaco     .     .     „  ,.    108 

Uffizi  Gallery 

[x] 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


Madonna  and  Saints,  by  Baldovinetti    ....    To  face 
Uffizi  Gallery 

Church  of  San  Spirito „ 

The  Cloisters  of  the  Carmine „ 

Portrait  of  Cosimo  the  Elder,  by  Pontormo    .     .     .    „ 
Uffizi  Gallery 

St.  Jerome,  by  Pra  Pilippo  Lippi „ 

Academy  of  Fine  Arts 

Church  of  the  Carmine „ 

Group  of  Angels,  by  Giotto „ 

Medici  Chapel  in  Santa  Croce 

Portrait  of  Masaccio „ 

Brancacci  Chapel  in  Church  of  the  Carmine 

The  Tribute  Money,  by  Masaccio „ 

Brancacci  Chapel  in  Church  of  the  Carmine 

Coronation  of  the  Virgin,  by  Pilippo  Lippi     .     .     .    „ 
Academy  of  Fine  Arts 

Portrait  of  Pilippo  Lippi » 

Academy  of  Fine  Arts 

Portrait  of  Andrea  del  Sarta  and  his  Wife      .     .     .    „ 
Pitti  Gallery 

View  of  Piesole „ 

Madonna,  by  Andrea  del  Sarto „ 

Pitti  Gallery 

Palace  Riccardi-Mannelli » 

Piazza  dell'  Annunziata 

Villa  Petraja „ 

Statue  of  Ferdinand  I.  de'  Medici „ 

Piazza  dell*  Annimziata 

Piazza  and  Church  of  San  Lorenzo „ 

Book-stall  in  Piazza  San  Lorenzo „ 

Riccardi  Palace ,j 

[xi] 


page  112 

„  114 
,,  116 
„     122 

„     124 


126 

130 

132 

134 

138 

142 

144 

150 

152 

„     156 


158 

164 

166 

170 

172 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

Interior  of  San  Lorenzo To  face  page  176 

Strozzi  Palace „  „     ISO 

Piazza  Santa  Trinita „  „     184 

Bridge  of  Santa  Trinita „  „     188 

Porta  Romana „  „     IQ-i 

Mrs.  Browning's  Tomb „  ,,200 

Protestant  Cemetery 

Donna  Velata „  „     206 

Pitti  Gallery 

Madonna  del  Granduca „  „     210 

Pitti  Gallery 

San  Miniato „  „     212 

Galileo's  Tower ,  ,,218 

The  Protestant  Cemetery „  ,,224! 

Piazza  Donatello 


[xii] 


Introduction 


yl  LTHOUGH  English  poets  bj  birth,  the  city  of 
/— %  Florence,  in  Italy,  was  the  home  of  P^obert  and 
"^  -^-  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning  during  the  fifteen 
years  of  their  wedded  life.  Eor  both,  this  was  a  period 
not  only  of  supreme  happiness  but  of  continual  literary 
production,  most  of  which  was  profoundly  and  essentially 
influenced  by  Italian  conditions  and  Italian  atmosphere. 
The  most  distinctively  lyrical  poetry  of  Eobert  Browning 
belongs  almost  entirely  to  these  years ;  whoever  would 
see  him  as  a  singer,  in  distinction  from  the  dramatist  of 
his  earlier  period  or  the  philosophical  and  religious  poet  of 
his  later  life,  must  turn  to  the  poems  written  during  this 
time  of  "  life,  love,  and  Italy/'  To  both  poets  the  history, 
the  scenery,  the  art  of  Florence,  was  a  continual  inspira- 
tion; poems  and  correspondence  alike  show  the  supreme 
place  it  held  in  their  affections.  "The  most  beautiful 
of  the  cities  devised  by  man,''  says  Mrs.  Browning,  in  one 
of  her  letters ;  "  completing  Florence  as  Florence  Italy," 
says  Robert  Browning,  speaking  of  the  campanile  of  the 
cathedral. 

Mrs.   Browning's   life-long   interest  in  Italian  politics 
and  in  popular  liberty  are  too  well  known  to  need  further 

[  13] 


INTRODUCTION 

exposition;  but  the  large  part  played  by  the  local  color 
of  the  city,  the  multitude  of  allusions  to  the  churches, 
the  piazzas,  the  pictures,  tlie  statues,  the  traditions  of 
Florence  can  be  understood  fully  only  by  a  somewhat 
intimate  knowledge  of  the  city. 

The  same  is  true  of  many  of  Eobert  Browning's  poems. 
For  example,  his  "  Old  Pictures  in  Florence ''  is  counted 
among  the  most  obscure  of  his  shorter  poems ;  but  it  is 
obscure  only  because  it  assumes  a  larger  amount  of  infor- 
mation in  the  history  of  art  than  most  readers  possess. 
It  is  true  that  nearly  every  line  has  some  allusion  to  an 
artist  or  an  art-principle  more  or  less  unknown  ;  but  there 
is  no  obscurity  either  of  thought  or  expression  when  we 
are  once  as  well  informed  as  Browning  presupposes  us  all 
to  be.  Doubtless  it  was  a  mistake  on  his  part.  Himself 
living  among  these  things,  which  were  a  part  of  his  daily 
walk  and  thought,  it  was  unwise  to  assume  an  equal  amount 
of  interest  and  knowledge  on  the  part  of  his  reader.  But 
the  error  is  both  complimentary  and  inspiring.  Yisiting 
Florence,  one  of  the  first  ambitions  of  a  lover  of  Browning 
is  to  go  about  with  "  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,^'  and  other 
poems,  as  a  guide-book  to  some  of  the  things  best  wortli 
seeing.  But  even  such  a  person  finds  no  small  difficulty 
in  locating  the  special  picture,  or  statue,  or  scene.  This 
book  is  an  attempt  to  aid  liim  and  also  the  still  larger 
number  of  persons  who  may  never  see  the  city  itself. 
The  poems  of  tlie  Brownings  already  have  been  annotated 
ably  and  sufficiently  as  far  as  words  can  serve ;  the  pres- 
ent work  aims  to  set  before  the  eye  pictures  of  the  places 

L  It] 


INTRODUCTION 

or  persons  mentioned,  so  that  each  reader  may  see  Flor- 
ence for  himself  as  nearly  as  possible  as  the  two  poets  saw 
it,  may  approach,  as  closely  as  ever  is  possible  to  an  out- 
sider, the  sources  of  poetical  inspiration. 

Indeed,  both  poets  at  times  seem  to  have  invited  us 
into  the  inner  sanctuary  of  their  minds,  by  stating  dis- 
tinctly the  circumstances  which  led  to  poetical  creation. 
Mrs.  Browning  tells  how  she  heard  a  little  child  go  sing- 
ing underneath  her  windows,  and  how  with  it  came  the 
thought  how 

"  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat 
While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise  sereue 
'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Florence  street." 

Hence  the  poem,  "  Casa  Guidi  Windows.'^ 

Nor  is  there  in  all  literature  so  painstaking  an  effort  on 
the  part  of  any  writer  to  reveal  precisely  all  the  stages  of 
the  birth  and  growth  of  a  poem,  as  that  made  by  Brown- 
ing in  the  first  book  of  "  The  Eing  and  the  Book.'^  He 
tells  the  time  and  the  place  where  he  found,  and  the  price 
that  he  paid  for,  a  certain  square  old  yellow  book  picked 
out  from  amid  the  promiscuous  rubbish  of  an  old  book- 
stall ;  how  the  story  of  it  appealed  to  him  from  the  very 
moment  he  laid  hands  upon  it,  and  how,  absorbed  in  the 
reading,  he  took  his  unconscious  way  through  the  familiar 
streets,  finishing  it  just  as  he  reached  the  doorway,  "  where 
the  black  begins  with  tlie  first  stone-slab  of  the  staircase 
cold  '^  —  an  unmistakable  description  of  the  dreary  en- 
trance to  Casa  Guidi.  It  was  the  night  after,  he  goes  on 
to  tell  us,  "  as  I  trod  the  terrace  and  breathed  the  beauty 

[15] 


INTRODUCTION 

and  the  fearfulness  of  night/'  that  the  tragic  piece  acted 
itself  over  again,  and  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes  and  heard 
as  if  speaking  with  their  own  voices  all  the  long-dead  per- 
sonages of  the  story,  listened  to  their  mutual  accusations 
and  to  the  defences  of  each  for  his  own  share  in  it.  How 
such  revelations  come  to  the  poetic  soul  no  man  will  ever 
be  able  really  to  communicate  to  another ;  but  along  all 
tlie  list  of  writers  who  have  attempted  it,  from  Aristotle  to 
Matthew  Arnold,  is  there  anywhere  a  better  description 
of  the  nature  of  poetic  inspiration  than  these  passages 
from  "  The  Eing  and  the  Book  "  ?  — 

"  I  fused  my  hve  soul  and  that  inert  stuff 
Before  attempting  suiitlicraft." 

"  The  Hfe  in  me  abolished  4lie  death  of  things. 
Deep  calling  unto  deep." 

Or  this,  of  the  rapture  felt  by  the  poet  in  the  act  of 
creation :  — 

"Tlie  Book!  I  turn  its  medicinable  leaves 
In  London  now  till,  as  in  Florence  erst, 
A  spirit  laughs  and  leaps  through  every  limb. 
And  lights  my  eye,  and  lifts  me  by  the  hair. 
Letting  me  liave  my  will  again  with  these. 
—  How  title  I  the  dead,  alive  once  more?" 

It  was  four  years  before  the  poem  was  fully  wrought 
out  and  publislied  in  iiondon;  but  the  whole  conception 
of  "  The  Ring  and  the  liook  "  was  practically  complete  at 
the  close  of  those  twenty-four  hours  which  the  author  has 
described  so  minutely.  The  scene  of  the  story  itself  lies 
chiefly  in  Eome  and  Arezzo,  but  the  vivid  picture  of  the 

[  16] 


INTRODUCTION 

sarroundings  and  atmosphere  on  that  memorable  June  day, 
the  matchless  description  of  the  kindling  of  the  poetic  fire 
belong  solely  to  Florence.  Shortly  after  occurred  the  death 
of  Mrs.  Browning,  the  breaking  up  of  the  home,  and 
Mr.  Browning's  departure  from  the  city,  to  which  he  never 
afterwards  returned. 

No  effort  has  been  made  to  correct  what  many  will  re- 
gard as  misapprehensions  on  the  part  of  the  poets.  What 
is  known  as  the  "new  criticism '^  denies  that  Cimabue 
painted  the  "  Madonna  in  Santa  Maria  Novella,''^  and  gives 
it  to  Duccio;  the  picture  called  "  Andrea  del  Sarto  and  his 
Wife,  Painted  by  himself,^'  is  taken  away  from  Andrea  and 
ascribed  to  an  unknown  artist  of  the  Venetian  school,  and 
the  portraits  are  considered  to  be  two  unknown  persons. 
Whether  right  or  wrong,  no  critical  conclusion  can  ever 
destroy  the  charm  of  the  poem  called  '^  Andrea  del  Sarto .'' 
By  whatever  name  we  call  the  picture,  to  whatever  artist 
we  assign  it,  the  story  which  Browning  read  between  the 
lines  of  the  two  faces  looking  out  from  the  canvas  is  no 
less  eloquent,  the  monologue  no  less  dramatically  expres- 
sive of  that  type  of  artist  who  just  misses  his  place  among 
the  very  greatest  by  reason  of  his  lack  of  spiritual  power 
and  grace.  For  years,  hundreds  of  persons  daily  had 
passed  unmoved  before  this  picture  in  the  Pitti  Gallery ; 
one  day  the  man  of  supreme  dramatic  imagination,  the 
poet,  paused,  and  to  him  the  lips  seemed  to  move  and  the 
heart  to  throb  with  a  tale  of  love  and  woe  and  resigned 
despair.  Since  that  time  there  are  none  who  read  the 
poem  who  do  not  wish  to  see  the  picture  itself,  or,  fail- 
2  [17] 


INTRODUCTION 

ing  in  that,  some  reproduction  of  it.     With  "Fra  Lippo 

Lippi "  and  other  poems  the  case  is  the  same. 

To  such  persons  is  offered  this  book  —  a  selection  of 

those  poems  of  Robert  and  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning 

which   have   to    do   with   Florence,  —  in  the  belief  that 

with  these  two  great  poets  as  guides  they  will  see  with 

a  new  vision  some  of  the  old  glories  of  the  fair  city  of 

the  Arno. 

A.  B.  McM. 

Florence,  Italy,  1904. 


[18] 


CAS  A   GUIDI   WINDOWS 


FLORENCE  in  the 

POErR  Y  Z  BROWNINGS 


CAS  A    GUIBl   W^INnoWS 

A    POEM,  IN  TWO  PARTS 

^^^^HIS  poem  contains  the  impressions  of  the  writer 
m  upon  events  in  Tuscany  of  which  she  was  a  wit- 
•^  ness.  '^^  From  a  window^''  the  critic  may  demur. 
She  hows  to  the  objection  in  the  very  title  of  her  work. 
No  continucms  narrative  nor  exposition  of  political  phi- 
losophy is  attempted  hy  her.  It  is  a  simple  story  of 
personal  impressions,  zvhose  only  value  is  in  the  intensity 
with  which  they  were  received,  as  proving  her  warm 
affection  for  a  heaidiful  and  unfortunate  country,  and 
the  sincerity  with  rchich  they  are  related,  as  indicating- 
her  own  good  faith  and  freedom  from  paHisanship. 

Of  the  two  parts  of  this  poem,  the  first  was  written 
nearly  three  years  ago ;  while  the  second  resumes  the 
actual  situation  of  1851.  The  discrepancy  between  the 
two  parts  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  to  the  public  of 
the  truthfulness  of  the  writer,  who,  though  she  certainly 
escaped  the  epidemic  ''falling  sickness''''  of  enthusiasm 
for  P'lo  Nono,  takes  shame  ujjon  herself  that  she  believed, 
like  a  woman,  some   royal  oaths,  and  lost  sight  of  the 

[21] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

probable  consequences  of  so7?ie  obvious  popular  defects. 
If  the  discrepancy  should  be  painful  to  the  reader^  let 
him  understand  that  to  the  writer  it  has  been  7nore  so. 
But  such  discrepancies  we  are  called  upon  to  accept  at 
everij  hour  hij  the  conditions  of  our  nature,  imphfing  the 
interval  between  asp>ir,aiion  and  performance,  between 
faith  diid,  (iisillvshn'^  Mtifjeen  hope  and  fact, 

0^  richest 'fortune  wkrjyvrosst. 

Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost/" 

Nay,  not  lost  to  the  future  in  this  case.     The  future  of 
Italy  shall  not  be  disinherited. 
Florence^  1851. 


part  &nt 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little  child  go  singing 
'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  by  the  church, 
"  0  hella  liberta,  0  Bella  !  '*  stringing 

The  same  words  still  on  notes,  he  went  in  search 
^0  high  for,  you  concluded  the  up-springing 
Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from  perch 
Must  leave  the  wliole  busli  in  ii  fremble  green, 

And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must  beat, 
While  sucli  a  voice  liad  leave  to  rise  serene 

^Twixt  cliurch  and  pnlace  of  a  Florence  street: 
A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had  been 
By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  liis  feet. 
And  still  ''  0  bella  llherta  "  he  sang. 
[  22  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innumerous 

Sweet  songs  which  still  for  Italy  outrang 
From  older  singers^  lips,  w^ho  sang  not  thus 

Exultingly  and  purely,  yet,  with  pang 
Fast  sheathed  in  music,  touched  the  heart  of  us 

So  finely,  that  the  pity  scarcely  pained. 
I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 

Bewailers  for  their  Italy  enchained. 
And  how  they  call  her  childless  among  mothers. 

Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce  refrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,  as  brothers 

Might  a  shamed  sister^s,  —  "  Had  she  been  less  fair, 
She  were  less  wretched,^^  —  how,  evoking  so 

From  congregated  wrong  and  heaped  despair 
Of  men  and  women  writhing  under  blow. 

Harrowed  and  hideous  in  a  filthy  lair. 
Some  personating  image  wherein  woe 

Was  wrapt  in  beauty  from  offending  much. 
They  called  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 

Or  laid  it  corpse-like  on  a  bier  for  such. 
Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for  Italy 

Those  cadenced    tears    which    burn    not    where    they 
touch,  — 
"  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as  we  ? 

And  was  the  violet  crown  that  crowned  thy  head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made  it  rough. 

It  slipped  down,  and  across  thine  eyelids  dead, 
0  sweet,  fair  Juliet  ?  "     Of  such  songs  enough. 

Too  many  of  such  complaints  !     Behold,  instead, 

[23] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Yoid  at  Yerona,  Juliet^s  marble  trough ;  ^ 

As  void  as  that  is,  are  all  images 
Men  set  between  themselves  and  actual  wrong 

To  catch  the  weight  of  pity,  meet  the  stress 
Of  conscience ;  since  ''t  is  easier  to  gaze  long 

On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Than  on  real,  live,  weak  creatures  crushed  by  strong. 

For  me,  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
XWhere  worthier  poets  stood  and  sang  before, 

I  kiss  their  footsteps,  yet  their  words  gainsay. 
I  can  but  muse  in  hope  upon  this  shore 

Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her  bridges  four,  — 

Bent  bridges  seeming  to  strain  off  like  bows. 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  undertide 

Shoots  on,  and  cleaves  the  marble  as  it  goes, 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either  side, 

And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glittering  rows. 
With  doors  and  windows  quaintly  multiplied. 

And  terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  upon  all. 
By  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were  tlirown  out 

From  any  lattice  there,  the  same  would  fall 
Into  the  river  underneath,  no  doubt. 

It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall  and  wall. 
How  beautiful !  The  mountains  from  without 

In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said  next. 
What  word  will  men  say,  —  here  where  Giotto  planted 

^  They  show  at  Verona,  as  the  tomb  of  Juliet,  aa  empty  trough  of  stone. 

[24] 


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CASA    GUIDI   WINDOWS 

His  campanile  like  an  unperplext 
Fine  question  heavenward,  touching  the  things  granted 

A  noble  people,  who,  being  greatly  vext 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ? 

What  word  will  God  say  ?     MicheFs  Night  and  Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  marble  scorn, 

Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched  on  clay 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp^s  outworn. 

The  final  putting-off  of  all  such  sway 
By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the  unborn 

In  Florence  and  the  great  world  outside  Florence. 
Three  hundred  years  his  patient  statues  wait 

In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  St.  Lawrence  : 
Day's  eyes  are  breaking  bold  and  passionate 

Over  his  shoulder,  and  will  flash  abhorrence 
On  darkness,  and  with  level  looks  meet  fate. 

When  once  loose  from  that  marble  film  of  theirs ; 
The  Night  has  wild  dreams  in  her  sleep,  the  Dawn 

Is  haggard  as  the  sleepless.  Twilight  wears 
A  sort  of  horror ;  as  the  veil  withdrawn 

■'Twixt  the  artistes  soul  and  works  had  left  them  heirs 
Of  speechless  thoughts  which  would  not  quail  nor  fawn. 

Of  angers  and  contempts,  of  hope  and  love  : 
For  not  without  a  meaning  did  he  place 

The  princely  Urbino  on  the  seat  above 
With  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face. 

While  the  slow  dawns  and  twilights  disapprove 
The  ashes  of  his  long-extinguished  race 

Which  never  more  shall  clog  the  feet  of  men. 

[26] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

I  do  believe,  diviiiest  Angelo, 

That  winter-hour  in  Yia  Larga,  when 
They  bade  thee  build  a  statue  up  in  snow,^ 

And  straight  that  marvel  of  thine  art  again 
Dissolved  beneath  the  sun's  Italian  glow, 

Tliine  eyes,  dilated  with  the  plastic  passion, 
Thawing,  too,  in  drops  of  wounded  manhood,  since. 

To  mock  alike  thine  art  and  indignation. 
Laughed  at  the  palace-window  the  new  prince,  — 

("  Aha !  this  genius  needs  for  exaltation. 
When  all 's  said,  and  however  the  proud  may  wince, 

A  little  marble  from  our  princely  mines !  ■") 
I  do  believe  that  hour  thou  laughedst  too 

For  the  whole  sad  world,  and  for  thy  Florentines, 
After  those  few  tears,  which  were  only  few  ! 

That  as,  beneath  the  sun,  the  grand  white  lines 
Of  thy  snow-statue  trembled  and  withdrew,  — 

The  head,  erect  as  Jove's,  being  palsied  first, 
The  eyelids  flattened,  the  full  brow  turned  blank. 

The  right  hand,  raised  but  now  as  if  it  curst, 
Dropt,  a  mere  snowball  (till  the  people  sank 

Tlieir  voices,  though  a  louder  laughter  burst 
From  the  royal  window)  —  thou  couldst  proudly  thank 

God  and  the  prince  for  promise  and  presage. 
And  laugh  the  laugh  back,  I  think  verily. 

Thine  eyes  being  })urged  by  tears  of  righteous  rage 
To  read  a  wrong  into  a  prophecy, 

*  This  mockinsf  task   was  set  by    Pietro,    the   unworthy  successor  of 
Loreuzo  the  Mai^nificeut. 

[26] 


lyriCHEL  ANGELO'S  monument 
to  Giuliano  de'  Medici  in  the  New 
Sacristy  of  Church  of  San  Lorenzo, 
with  statues  of  Day  and  Night. 


"  Michel's  iSighl  and  l)ay  " 

And  I)awn  and  Timl'ujht  vxdt  in  marble  scorn.'' 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  25. 


II 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

And  measure  a  true  great  maii^s  heritage 
Against  a  mere  great  duke's  posterity. 

I  think  thy  soul  said  then,  ^^  I  do  not  need 
A  princedom  and  its  quarries,  after  all ; 

For  if  I  write,  paint,  carve  a  word,  indeed. 
On  book,  or  board,  or  dust,  on  floor  or  wall. 

The  same  is  kept  of  God,  who  taketh  heed 
That  not  a  letter  of  the  meaning  fall 

Or  ere  it  touch  and  teach  his  world's  deep  heart, 
Outlasting,  therefore,  all  your  lordships,  sir ! 

So  keep  your  stone,  beseech  you,  for  your  part, 
To  cover  up  your  grave-place,  and  refer 

The  proper  titles  :  I  live  by  my  art. 
The  thought  I  threw  into  this  snow  shall  stir 

This  gazing  people  when  their  gaze  is  done  ; 
And  the  tradition  of  your  act  and  mine. 

When  all  the  snow  is  melted  in  the  sun. 
Shall  gather  up  for  unborn  men  a  sign 

Of  what  is  the  true  princedom ;  ay,  and  none 
Shall  laugh  that  day,  except  the  drunk  with  wine. 

Amen,  great  Angelo  !  the  day 's  at  hand. 
If  many  laugh  not  on  it,  shall  we  weep  ? 

Much  more  we  must  not,  let  us  understand. 
Through  rhymers  sonneteering  in  their  sleep, 

And  archaists  mumbling  dry  bones  up  the  land. 
And  sketches  lauding  ruined  towns  a-heap,  — 

Through  all  that  drowsy  hum  of  voices  smooth. 
The  hopeful  bird  mounts  carolling  from  brake, 
[27] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  liopeful  child,  with  leaps  to  catch  his  growth. 
Sings  open-eyed  for  liberty's  sweet  sake ; 

And  I,  a  singer  also  from  my  youth. 
Prefer  to  sing  with  these  who  are  awake, 

With  birds,  with  babes,  with  men  wlio  will  not  fear 
The  baptism  of  the  holy  morning  dew 

(And  many  of  such  wakers  now  are  here. 
Complete  in  their  anointed  manhood,  who 

Will  greatly  dare,  and  greatlier  persevere). 
Than  join  those  old  thin  voices  with  my  new. 

And  sigh  for  Italy  with  some  safe  sigh 
Cooped  up  in  music  'twixt  an  oh  and  ah : 

Nay,  hand  in  hand  with  that  young  child  will  I 
Go  singing  rather,  "  Bella  liheria,'' 

Than,  with  those  poets,  croon  the  dead,  or  cry 
"  Se  tu  men  bellafosai,  Italia  !  " 

"  Less  wretched  if  less  fair/^     Perhaps  a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this,  that  Italy, 

Long  trammelled  witli  the  purple  of  her  youth 
Against  her  age's  ripe  activity, 

Sits  still  upon  her  tombs,  without  death's  ruth. 
But  also  without  life's  brave  energy. 

"  Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy  ?"  men  ask  ; 
And  others  answer,  "  Virgil,  Cicero, 

Catullus,  Ctcsar."     Wliat  beside,  to  task 
The  memory  closer  ?  —  ''  Why,  Boccaccio, 

Dante,  Petrarca,"  —  and  if  still  the  llask 
Appears  to  yield  its  wine  by  drops  too  slow,  — 

[28  J 


M 


ICHEL  ANGELO'S  monument 
to  Lorenzo  de'  Medici  in  the  New 
Sacristy  of  Church  of  San  Lorenzo, 
with  statues  of  Evenina:  and  Dawn. 


"  Three  hundred  years  his  patient  statues  wait 
In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  St.  Lawrence.'''' 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  25. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

"  Angelo,  Raffael,  Pergolese/"  —  all 
Whose  strong  hearts  beat  through  stoiie_,  or  charged  again 

The  paints  with  fire  of  souls  electrical^ 
Or  broke  up  heaven  for  music.     What  more  then  ? 

Why,  then,  no  more.     The  chaplefs  last  beads  fall 
In  naming  the  last  saintship  within  ken. 

And,  after  that,  none  prayeth  in  the  land. 
Alas  !  this  Italy  has  too  long  swept 
Heroic  ashes  up  for  hour-glass  sand  ; 
Of  her  own  past,  impassioned  nympholept ! 

Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the  hand 
To  the  very  bay-tree  under  which  she  stept 

A  queen  of  old,  and  plucked  a  leafy  branch ; 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  indeed 

To  use  her  broad  phylacteries  to  stanch 
And  stop  her  bloody  lips,  she  takes  no  heed 

How  one  clear  word  would  draw  an  avalanche 
Of  living  sons  around  her  to  succeed 

The  vanished  generations.     Can  she  count 
These  oil-eaters  with  large,  live,  mobile  mouths 

Agape  for  macaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  heroes  of  her  south^s 

Bright  rosary  ?     The  pitcher  at  the  fount, 
The  gift  of  gods,  being  broken,  she  much  loathes 

To  let  the  ground-leaves  of  the  place  confer 
A  natural  bowl.     So  henceforth  she  would  seem 

No  nation,  but  the  poet^s  pensioner. 
With  alms  from  every  land  of  song  and  dream. 

While  aye  her  pipers  sadly  pipe  of  her 

[29] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Until  their  proper  breaths,  in  that  extreme 

Of  sigliing,  split  the  reed  on  which  thej  played ; 

Of  which,  no  more.     But  never  say  "  No  more  *' 
To  Italy's  life  !     Her  memories  undismayed 

StiU  argue  "evermore^';  her  graves  implore 
Her  future  to  be  strong,  and  not  afraid ; 

Her  very  statues  send  their  looks  before. 

We  do  not  serve  the  dead :  the  past  is  past. 
God  lives,  and  lifts  his  glorious  mornings  up 

Before  the  eyes  of  men  awake  at  last. 
Who  put  away  the  meats  they  used  to  sup. 

And  down  upon  the  dust  of  earth  outcast 
The  dregs  remaining  of  the  ancient  cup. 

Then  turned  to  wakeful  prayer  and  worthy  act. 
The  dead,  upon  their  awful  vantage  ground. 

The  sun  not  in  their  faces,  shall  abstract 
No  more  our  strength :  we  will  not  be  discrowned 

As  guardians  of  their  crowns,  nor  deign  transact 
A  barter  of  the  present,  for  a  sound 

Of  good  so  counted  in  tlie  foregone  days. 
O  dead  !  ye  shall  no  longer  cling  to  us 

With  rigid  hands  of  desiccating  praise, 
And  drag  us  backward  by  tlie  garment  thus. 

To  stand  and  laud  you  in  long-drawn  virelays. 
We  will  not  henceforth  be  oblivious 

Of  our  own  lives,  because  ye  lived  before. 
Nor  t)f  our  acts,  because  ye  acted  well. 

We  thank  you  that  ye  first  unlatched  the  door, 
[30  J 


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CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

But  will  not  make  it  inaccessible 

By  thankings  on  the  threshold  any  more. 
We  hurry  onward  to  extinguish  hell 
«  With  our  fresh  souls,  our  younger  hope,  and  God's 
Maturity  of  purpose.     Soon  shall  we 

Die  also,  and,  that  then  our  periods 
Of  life  may  round  themselves  to  memory 

As  smoothly  as  on  our  graves  the  burial-sods. 
We  now  must  look  to  it  to  excel  as  ye. 

And  bear  our  age  as  far,  unlimited 
By  the  last  mind-mark ;  so,  to  be  invoked 

By  future  generations,  as  their  dead. 

■'T  is  true,  that,  when  the  dust  of  death  has  choked 

A  great  man's  voice,  the  common  words  he  said 
Turn  oracles,  the  common  thoughts  he  yoked 
.  Like  horses,  draw  like  griffins  :  this  is  true 
And  acceptable.     I,  too,  should  desire. 

When  men  make  record  with  the  flowers  they  strew, 
"  Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire 

Upon  our  Grand-duke's  piazza,  and  burned  through 
A  moment  first,  or  ere  he  did  expire. 

The  veil  betwixt  the  right  and  wrong,  and  showed 
How  near  God  sate  and  judged  the  judges  there,^^  — 

Upon  the  self-same  pavement  over-strewed 
To  cast  my  violets  with  as  reverent  care, 

And  prove  that  all  the  winters  which  have  snowed 
Cannot  snow  out  the  scent  from  stones  and  air. 

Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues.     This  was  he, 
[31] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Savonarola^  who,  while  Peter  sank 

With  his  whole  boat-load,  called  courageously, 
^'  Wake   Christ,  wake  Christ ! "    who,  having   tried   the 
tank 

Of  old  church-waters  used  for  baptistry 
Ere  Luther  came  to  spill  them,  swore  they  stank ; 

Who  also  by  a  princely  death-bed  cried, 
"  Loose  Plorence,  or  God  will  not  loose  thy  soul ! " 

Then  fell  back  the  Magnificent,  and  died 
Beneath  the  star-look  shooting  from  the  cowl. 

Which  turned  to  wormwood-bitterness  the  wide 
Deep  sea  of  his  ambitions.     It  were  foul 

To  grudge  Savonarola  and  the  rest 
Their  violets  :  rather  pay  them  quick  and  fresh. 

The  emphasis  of  death  makes  manifest 
The  eloquence  of  action  in  our  flesli  ; 

And  men  who  living  were  but  dimly  guessed. 
When  once  free  from  their  life's  entangled  mesh. 

Show  their  full  length  in  graves,  or  oft  indeed 
Exaggerate  their  stature,  in  the  flat. 

To  noble  admirations  which  exceed 
Most  nobly,  yet  will  calculate  in  that 

But  accurately.     We  who  are  tlie  seed 
Of  buried  creatures,  if  we  turned  and  spat 

Upon  our  antecedents,  we  were  vik^ 
Bring  viok'ts  ratlier.     If  these  had  not  walked 

Their  furlong,  could  we  hope  to  walk  our  mile? 
Therefore  bring  violets.     Yet  if  we,  self-balked. 

Stand  still  a-strewing  violets  all  the  while, 

[32] 


in   the   Great    Hall  of 
the  Palazzo  Veeehio. 


"  This  was  he, 
Savonarola.  .  .   the  star-look  shooting  from  the  cowl.'"' 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

These  moved  in  vain,  of  whom  we  have  vainly  talked. 

So  rise  up  henceforth  with  a  cheerful  smile_, 
And,  having  strewn  the  violets,  reap  the  corn. 

And,  having  reaped  and  garnered,  bring  the  plough 
And  draw  new  furrows  'neath  the  healthy  morn. 

And  plant  the  great  Hereafter  in  this  Now. 

Of  old  't  was  so.     How  step  by  step  was  worn. 

As  each  man  gained  on  each  securely  !  how 
Each  by  his  own  strength  sought  his  own  Ideal,  — 

The  ultimate  Perfection  leaning  bright 
From  out  the  sun  and  stars  to  bless  the  leal 

And  earnest  search  of  all  for  Pair  and  Eii?ht 
Through  doubtful  forms  by  earth  accounted  real ! 

Because  old  Jubal  blew  into  delight 
The  souls  of  men  with  clear-piped  melodies, 

If  youthful  Asaph  were  content  at  most 
To  draw  from  Jubal's  grave,  with  listening  eyes. 

Traditionary  music^s  floating  ghost 
Into  the  grass-grown  silence,  were  it  wise  ? 

And  was 't  not  wiser,  JubaFs  breath  being  lost. 
That  Miriam  clashed  her  cymbals  to  surprise 

The  sun  between  her  white  arms  flung  apart. 
With  new  glad  golden  sounds  ?  that  David^'s  strings 

Overflowed  his  hand  with  music  from  his  heart  ? 
So  harmony  grows  full  from  many  springs. 

And  happy  accident  turns  holy  art. 

You  enter,  in  your  Florence  wanderings. 
The  Church  of  St.  Maria  Novella.     Pass 
3  [  33  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  left  stair,  where  at  plague-time  Machiavel 

Saw  one  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a  glass. 
Dressed  out  against  the  fear  of  death  and  hell, 

E-ustling  her  silks  in  pauses  of  the  mass 
To  keep  the  thought  off  how  her  husband  fell. 

When  she  left  home,  stark  dead  across  her  feet, — 
The  stair  leads  up  to  what  the  Orgagnas  save 

Of  Dante^s  demons ;  you  in  passing  it 
Ascend  the  right  stair  from  the  farther  nave 

To  muse  in  a  small  chapel  scarcely  lit 
By  Cimabue's  Virgin.     Bright  and  brave. 

That  picture  was  accounted,  mark,  of  old : 
A  king  stood  bare  before  its  sovraii  grace, 

A  reverent  people  shouted  to  behold 
The  picture,  not  the  king;  and  even  the  place 

Containing  such  a  miracle  grew  bold, 
Named  the  Glad  Borgo  from  that  beauteous  face 

Which  thrilled  the  artist  after  work  to  think 
Plis  own  ideal  Mary-smile  should  stand 

So  very  near  liini,  —  lie,  within  the  brink 
Of  all  that  glory,  let  in  by  his  hand 

With  too  divine  a  rashness !     Yet  none  shrink 
Who  come  to  gaze  here  now ;  albeit  ^t  was  planned 

Sublimely  in  the  thought's  simplicity. 
The  Lady,  throned  in  empyreal  state. 

Minds  only  the  young  liabe  upon  her  knee, 
While  sidelong  angels  bear  the  royal  weight. 

Prostrated  meekly,  smiling  tenderly 
Oblivion  of  their  wings ;  the  child  thereat 

[  3*] 


c 


ELL  of  Savonarola  iu  San  Marco. 


"  I'he  emphasis  of  death  makes' r an i ij as^  s.,,  ■.    .« 
The  eloquence  of  action  in  our  Jfesh."' 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  32. 


it         9      ■  ■  »     t 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Stretching  its  hand  like  God.     If  any  should^ 
Because  of  some  stiff  draperies  and  loose  joints. 

Gaze  scorn  down  from  the  heights  of  Raffaelhood 
On  Cimabue^s  picture,  Heaven  anoints 

The  head  of  no  such  critic,  and  his  blood 
The  poet'^s  curse  strikes  full  on,  and  appoints 

To  ague  and  cold  spasms  forevermore. 
A  noble  picture  !  worthy  of  the  shout 

Wherewith  along  the  streets  the  people  bore 
Its  cherub-faces  which  the  sun  threw  out 

Until  they  stooped,  and  entered  the  church-door. 
Yet  rightly  was  young  Giotto  talked  about. 

Whom  Cimabue  found  among  the  sheep,^ 
And  knew,  as  gods  know  gods,  and  carried  home 

To  paint  the  things  he  had  painted,  with  a  deep 
And  fuller  insight,  and  so  overcome 

His  Chapel-Lady  with  a  heavenlier  sweep 
Of  light;  for  thus  we  mount  into  the  sum 

Of  great  things  known  or  acted.     I  hold,  too. 
That  Cimabue  smiled  upon  the  lad 

At  the  first  stroke  which  passed  what  he  could  do, 
Or  else  his  Yirgin^s  smile  had  never  had 

Such  sweetness  in 't.     All  great  men  who  foreknew 
Their  heirs  in  art,  for  art''s  sake  have  been  glad. 

And  bent  their  old  white  heads  as  if  uncrowned, 

1  How  Cimabue  found  Giotto,  the  shepherd-boy,  sketching  a  ram  of  his 
flock  upon  a  stone,  is  prettily  told  by  Vasari,  who  also  relates  that  the 
elder  artist  Margheritone  died  "  infastidito  "  of  the  successes  of  the  new 
school. 

[35] 


CASA    GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Fanatics  of  their  pure  ideals  still 

Far  more  than  of  their  triumphs,  which  were  found 
With  some  less  vehement  struggle  of  the  will. 

If  old  Margheritone  trembled^  swooned. 
And  died  despairing  at  the  opeu  sill 

Of  other  men^s  achievements  (who  achieved 
By  loving  art  beyond  the  master)  he 

Was  old  Margheritone,  and  conceived 
Never,  at  first  youth  and  most  ecstasy, 

A  Virgin  like  that  dream  of  one,  which  heaved 
The  death-sigh  from  his  heart.     If  wistfully 

Marglieritone  sickened  at  the  smell 
Of  Cimabue^s  laurel,  let  him  go  ! 

For  Cimabue  stood  up  very  well 
In  spite  of  Giotto's,  and  Angelico 

The  artist-saint  kept  smiling  in  his  cell 
The  smile  with  w^hicli  he  welcomed  the  sweet  slow 

Inbreak  of  angels  (whitening  througli  the  dim 
That  he  might  paint  them)  while  the  sudden  sense 

Of  RafFacFs  future  was  revealed  to  liim 
By  force  of  his  own  fair  work's  competence. 

The  same  blue  waters  where  the  doljihins  swim 
Suggest  the  tritons.     Tlirough  tlie  blue  immense 

Strike  out,  all  swimmers  !  cling  not  in  the  way 
Of  one  another,  so  to  sink,  but  learn 

The  strong  man's  impulse,  catch  the  freshening  spray 
He  tlirows  up  in  his  motions,  and  discern 

By  his  clear  westering  eye,  the  time  of  day. 
Thou,  God,  hast  set  us  worthy  gifts  to  earn 

[36] 


^ 


o 


^  '^  z: 

^  a  ?^ 

=  ^  o 

5-  I  = 

'-'  '  o 

C"  as  Xj 

^  i-  c» 

2  S"  S- 

fO  ffi  ^ 


CASA    GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Besides  thy  heaven  and  thee  !  and  when  I  say 
There  ''s  room  here  for  the  weakest  man  alive 

To  live  and  die,  there  ''s  room,  too_,  I  repeat, 
For  all  the  strongest  to  live  well,  and  strive 

Their  own  way  by  their  individual  heat, 
Like  some  new  bee-swarm  leaving  the  old  hive. 

Despite  the  wax  which  tempts  so  violet-sweet. 
Then  let  the  living  live,  the  dead  retain 

Their  grave-cold  flowers  !  though  honor  ■'s  best  supplied 
By  bringing  actions  to  prove  theirs  not  vain. 

Cold  graves,  we  say?  it  shall  be  testified 
That  living  men  who  burn  in  heart  and  brain. 

Without  the  dead  were  colder.     If  we  tried 
To  sink  the  past  beneath  our  feet,  be  sure 

The  future  would  not  stand.     Precipitate 
This  old  roof  from  the  shrine,  and,  insecure. 

The  nesting  swallows  fly  off,  mate  from  mate. 
How  scant  the  gardens,  if  the  graves  were  fewer ! 

The  tall  green  poplars  grew  no  longer  straight 
Whose  tops  not  looked  to  Troy.     Would  any  fight 

For  Athens,  and  not  swear  by  Marathon  ? 
Who  dared  build  temples,  wathout  tombs  in  sight  ? 

Or  live,  without  some  dead  man's  benison  ? 
Or  seek  truth,  hope  for  good,  and  strive  for  right. 

If,  looking  up,  he  saw  not  in  the  sun 
Some  angel  of  the  martyrs  all  day  long 

Standing  and  waiting  ?     Your  last  rhythm  will  need 
Your  earliest  keynote.     Could  I  sing  this  song, 

[37] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

If  my  dead  masters  had  not  taken  heed 
To  help  the  heavens  and  earth  to  make  me  strong, 

As  the  wind  ever  will  find  out  some  reed. 
And  touch  it  to  such  issues  as  belong 

To  such  a  frail  thing  ?     None  may  grudge  the  dcnd 
Libations  from  full  cups.     Unless  we  choose 

To  look  back  to  the  hills  behind  us  spread, 
The  plains  before  us  sadden  and  confuse : 

If  orphaned,  we  are  disinherited. 

I  would  but  turn  these  lachrymals  to  use. 

And  pour  fresh  oil  in  from  the  olive-grove, 
To  furnish  them  as  new  lamps.     Shall  I  say 

What  made  my  heart  beat  with  exulting  love 
A  few  days  back  ?  — 

The  day  was  such  a  day 

As  Florence  owes  the  sun.     The  sky  above. 
Its  weight  upon  the  mountains  seemed  to  lay. 

And  palpitate  in  glory,  like  a  dove 
Who  has  flown  too  fast,  full-hearted  —  take  away 

The  image  !  for  tlie  heart  of  man  beat  higher 
That  day  in  Florence,  flooding  all  her  streets 

And  piazzas  Avitli  a  tumult  and  desire. 
The  people,  with  accumulated  heats. 

And  faces  turned  one  way,  as  if  one  fire 
Both  drew  and  flushed  them,  left  their  ancient  beats. 

And  went  up  toward  the  palace-Pitti  wall 
To  thank  their  Grand-duke,  who,  not  quite  of  course. 

Had  graciously  permitted,  at  their  call, 
[38] 


A  NDllEA  ORCAGNA'S  fresco  of 

'^Dante's    Inferno    in    the    Strozzi 

Chapel  of  Santa   Maria  Novella. 


"  The  stair  leads  up  to  what  the  Orgagnas  save 
Of  Dante's  demons. "  .'..,, 

— 'iasr  ('^i'iii'"VV^indo.rs,  p.  3t. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  citizens  to  use  their  civic  force 

To  guard  their  civic  homes.     So^  one  and  all, 
The  Tuscan  cities  streamed  up  to  the  source 

Of  this  new  good  at  Florence,  taking  it 
As  good  so  far,  presageful  of  more  good,  — 

The  first  torch  of  Italian  freedom,  lit 
To  toss  in  the  next  tiger's  face  who  should 

Approach  too  near  them  in  a  greedy  fit,  ^- 
The  first  pulse  of  an  even  flow  of  blood 

To  prove  the  level  of  Italian  veins 
Towards  rights  perceived  and  granted.     How  we  gazed 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  while,  in  trains 
Of  orderly  procession  —  banners  raised, 

And  intermittent  bursts  of  martial  strains 
Which  died  upon  the  shout,  as  if  amazed 

By  gladness  beyond  music  —  they  passed  on  ! 
The  Magistracy,  with  insignia,  passed, 

And  all  the  people  shouted  in  the  sun. 
And  all  the  thousand  vrindows  which  had  cast 

A  ripple  of  silks  in  blue  and  scarlet  down, 
(As  if  the  houses  overflowed  at  last,) 

Seemed  growing  larger  with  fair  heads  and  eyes. 
The  Lawyers  passed,  and  still  arose  the  shout. 

And  hands  broke  from  the  windows  to  surprise 
Those  grave,  calm  brows  with  bay-tree  leaves  thrown  out. 

The  Priesthood  passed,  the  friars  with  worldly-wise 
Keen,  sidelong  glances  from  their  beards  about 

The  street  to  see  who  shouted ;  many  a  monk 
Who  takes  a  long  rope  in  tlie  waist  was  there ; 

[39] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Whereat  the  popular  exultation  drunk 
With  indrawn  "  vivas  "  the  whole  sunny  air. 

While  through  the  murmuring  windows  rose  and  sunk 
A  cloud  of  kerchiefed  hands,  — ''  The  Church  makes  fair 

Her  welcome  in  the  new  Pope's  name."     Ensued 
The  black  sign  of  the  "  Martyrs ''  —  (name  no  name, 

But  count  the  graves  in  silence).     Next  were  viewed 
The  Artists ;  next  the  Trades ;  and  after  came 

The  People,  —  flag  and  sign,  and  rights  as  good,  — 
And  very  loud  the  shout  was  for  that  same 

Motto,  "  II  popolo.''     Il  Popolo, — 
The  word  means  dukedom,  empire,  majesty, 

And  kings  in  such  an  hour  might  read  it  so. 
And  next,  with  banners,  each  in  his  degree. 

Deputed  representatives  a-row 
Of  every  separate  state  of  Tuscany  : 

Siena's  she-wolf,  bristling  on  the  fold 
Of  the  first  flag,  preceded  Pisa's  hare ; 

And  Massa's  lion  floated  calm  in  gold, 
Pienza's  following  with  his  silver  stare ; 

Arezzo's  steed  pranced  clear  from  bridle-hold,  — 
And  well  might  shout  our  Florence,  greeting  there 

These,  and  more  brethren.     Last,  the  world  liad  sent 
The  various  chiklren  of  her  teeming  flanks  — 

Greeks,  English,  French  —  as  if  to  a  parliament 
Of  lovers  of  her  Italy  in  ranks. 

Each  bearing  its  land's  symbol  reverent; 
At  which  the  stones  seemed  breaking  into  thanks, 

And  rattling  up  the  sky,  such  sounds  in  proof 

[  40] 


IVTADONNA  in  Rucellai  Chapel 
-'-'-'-of  Santa  :\raria  Novella. 


"  Ascend  the  rk/ht  stair  from  the  farther  nave 
To  muse  hi  a  small  chapel  scarcely  lit 
By  Cimahue's  Virgin.'''' 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  34. 


'      «    «     f 


\r. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

iVrose,  the  very  house- walls  seemed  to  bend  ; 

The  very  windows,  up  from  door  to  roof, 
Plashed  out  a  rapture  of  bright  heads,  to  mend 

With  passionate  looks  the  gesture^s  whirling  off 
A  hurricane  of  leaves.     Three  hours  did  end 

While  all  these  passed ;  and  ever,  in  the  crowd, 
Eude  men,  unconscious  of  the  tears  that  kept 

Their  beards  moist,  shouted;  some  few  laughed  aloud, 
And  none  asked  any  why  they  laughed  and  wept : 

Friends   kissed   each  other's   cheeks,    and  foes  long 
vowed 
More  warmly  did  it ;  two-months  babies  leapt 

Eight  upward  in  their  mother's  arms,  whose  black, 
Wide,  glittering  eyes  looked  elsewhere ;  lovers  pressed 

Each  before  either,  neither  glancing  back ; 
And  peasant  maidens  smoothly  ''tired  and  tressed 

Forgot  to  finger  on  their  throats  the  slack 
Great   pearl-strings ;    while  old  blind   men  would  not 
rest. 

But  pattered  with  their  staves,  and  slid  their  shoes 
Along  the  stones,  and  smiled  as  if  they  saw. 

O  Heaven,  I  think  that  day  had  noble  use 
Among  God's  days  !     So  near  stood  Eight  and  Law, 

Both  mutually  forborne !     Law  Avould  not  bruise, 
Nor  Eight  deny ;  and  each  in  reverent  aAve 

Honored  the  other.     And  if,  nevertheless. 
That  good  day's  sun  delivered  to  the  vines 

No  charta,  and  the  liberal  Duke's  excess 
Did  scarce  exceed  a  Guelf  s  or  Ghibelline's 

[41] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

In  any  special  actual  righteousness 
Of  what  that  day  lie  granted,  still  the  signs 

Are  good  and  full  of  promise,  we  must  say, 
When  multitudes  approach  their  kings  with  prayers, 

And  kings  coucede  their  people^s  right  to  pray. 
Both  in  one  sunshhie.     Griefs  are  not  despairs, 

So  uttered ;  nor  can  royal  claims  dismay 
When  men  from  humble  homes  and  ducal  chairs. 

Hate  wrong  together.     It  was  well  to  view 
Those  baimers  ruffled  in  a  ruler's  face 

Inscribed,  "  Live,  freedom,  union,  and  all  true 
Brave  patriots  who  are  aided  by  God's  grace !  " 

Nor  was  it  ill  when  Leopoldo  drew 
His  little  children  to  the  window-place 

He  stood  in  at  the  Pitti  to  suggest 
Theij,  too,  should  govern  as  the  people  willed. 

What  a  cry  rose  then !     Some,  who  saw  the  best. 
Declared  his  eyes  filled  up  and  overfilled 

With  good,  warm  human  tears,  wliich  unrepressed 
Ean  down.     I  like  his  face  :  the  forehead's  build 

Has  no  capacious  genius,  yet  perhaps 
Sufficient  comprehension  ;  mild  and  sad, 

And  careful  nobly,  not  with  care  that  wraps 
Self-loving  hearts,  to  stifle  and  make  mad. 

But  careful  with  the  care  that  shuns  a  lapse 
Of  faith  and  duty  ;  studious  not  to  add 

A  burden  in  the  gathering  of  a  gain. 
And  so,  God  save  the  Duke,  I  say  with  those 

Who  that  day  shouted  it ;  and,  while  dukes  reign, 
[42] 


IVTARGHERITONE'S  Crucifixion 
with  Madonna  and  St.  John.  In 
Church  of  Santa  Croce. 


Was  old  Margheritone,  and  cOncehed 
Never ^  at  first  youth  and  most  ecstasy^  - 
A  Virgin  like  that  dream  of  one ^  ivhich  heaved 
The  death-sigh  from  his  heart.'''' 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  36. 
"  Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 
•  .  .  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion. " 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  pp.  114,  115. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

May  all  wear  in  the  visible  overflows 

Of  spirit  such  a  look  of  careful  pain  ! 
For  God  must  love  it  better  than  repose. 

And  all  the  people  who  went  up  to  let 

Their  hearts  out  to  that  Duke,  as  has  been  told  — 
Where  guess  ye  that  the  living  people  met, 

Kept  tryst,  formed  ranks,  chose  leaders,  first  unrolled 
Their  banners  ? 

In  the  Loggia  ?  where  is  set 

Cellini's  godlike  Perseus,  bronze  or  gold, 
(How  name  the  metal,  when  the  statue  flings 

Its  soul  so  in  your  eyes  ?)  with  brow  and  sword 
Superbly  calm,  as  all  opposing  things. 

Slain  with  the  Gorgon,  were  no  more  abhorred 
Since  ended  ? 

No,  the  people  sought  no  wings 

From  Perseus  in  the  Loggia,  nor  implored 
An  inspiration  in  the  place  beside 

From  that  dim  bust  of  Brutus,  jagged  and  grand. 
Where  Buonarroti  passionately  tried 

From  out  the  close-clenched  marble  to  demand 
The  head  of  Rome's  sublimest  homicide. 

Then  dropt  the  quivering  mallet  from  his  hand. 
Despairing  he  could  find  no  model-stuft* 

Of  Brutus  in  all  Florence,  where  he  found 
The  gods  and  gladiators  thick  enough. 

Nor  there  !  the  people  chose  still  holier  ground : 
The  people,  who  are  simple,  blind,  and  rough, 

[43] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Know  their  own  angels^  after  looking  round. 
Whom  chose  thej  then  ?  where  met  they  ? 

On  the  stone 

Called  Dante's,  —  a  plain  flat  stone  scarce  discerned 
From  others  in  the  pavement,  —  whereupon 

He  used  to  bring  his  quiet  chair  out,  turned 
To  Brunelleschi^s  church,  and  pour  alone 

The  lava  of  his  spirit  when  it  burned : 
It  is  not  cold  to-day.     O  passionate 

Poor  Dante,  who,  a  banished  Florentine, 
Didst  sit  austere  at  banquets  of  the  great. 

And  muse  upon  this  far-off  stone  of  thine. 
And  think  how  oft  some  passer  used  to  wait 

A  moment,  in  the  golden  day's  decline, 
With  ^'  Good-night,  dearest  Dante  !  "  —  well,  good-night ! 

I  muse  now,  Dante,  and  think  verily, 
Though  chapelled  in  the  by-way,  out  of  sight, 

Ravenna's  bones  would  thrill  with  ecstasy, 
Couldst  know  thy  favorite  stone's  elected  right 

As  tryst-place  for  thy  Tuscans  to  foresee 
Their  earliest  chartas  from.     Good-night,  good-mom. 

Henceforward,  Dante  !  now  my  soul  is  sure 
That  tliine  is  better  comforted  of  scorn. 

And  looks  down  earthward  in  completer  cure 
Than  when,  in  Santa  Croce  Church  forlorn 

Of  any  corpse,  the  architect  and  hewer 
Did  pile  the  empty  marbles  as  thy  tomb. 

For  now  thou  art  no  longer  exiled,  now 

[  44  ] 


(^ARLO  BOLCrS  portrait  of 
Fra  Angelico 
of  Fine  Arts. 


Fra  Anselico  in  the  Academv 


The  artist  saint  kept  smllini/  in  hi.s-  ceil.^'' " 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  30. 

"  A  scrap  of  Fra  Anf/eJico^s.'''' 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  114. 

"  Brother  Angelico  "s  the  man,  you  lljrnd/' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  129. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Best  honored :  we  salute  thee  who  art  come 

Back  to  the  old  stone  with  a  softer  brow 
Than  Giotto  drew  upon  the  wall,  for  some 

Good  lovers  of  our  age  to  track  and  plough 
Their  way  to,  through  timers  ordures  stratified, 

And  startle  broad  awake  into  the  dull 
Bargello  chamber  :  now  thou  'rt  milder-eyed,  — 

Now  Beatrix  may  leap  up  glad  to  cull 
Thy  first  smile,  even  in  heaven  and  at  her  side, 

Like  that  which,  nine  years  old,  looked  beautiful 
At  May-game.     What  do  I  say  ?     I  only  meant 

That  tender  Dante  loved  his  Florence  well. 
While  Florence,  now,  to  love  him  is  content ; 

And  mark  ye,  that  the  piercingest  sweet  smell 
Of  love's  dear  incense  by  the  living  sent 

To  find  the  dead  is  not  accessible 
To  lazy  livers,  no  narcotic,  not 

Swung  in  a  censer  to  a  sleepy  tune. 
But  trod  out  in  the  morning  air  by  hot. 

Quick  spirits  who  tread  firm  to  ends  foreshown. 
And  use  the  name  of  greatness  unforgot. 

To  meditate  what  greatness  may  be  done. 
For  Dante  sits  in  heaven,  and  ye  stand  here. 

And  more  remains  for  doing,  all  must  feel. 
Than  try  sting  on  his  stone  from  year  to  year  , 

To  shift  processions,  civic  toe  to  heel, 
The  town's  thanks  to  the  Pitti.     Are  ye  freer 

For  what  was  felt  that  day  ?     A  chariot-wheel 
May  spin  fast,  yet  the  chariot  never  roll ; 

[45] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

But  if  that  (lay  suggested  something  good, 
And  bettered,  with  one  purpose,  soul  by  soul  — 

Better  means  freer.     A  land's  brotherhood 
Is  most  puissant :  men,  upon  the  whole, 
A.re  what  tliey  can  be  ;  nations,  what  they  would. 

Will,  therefore,  to  be  strong,  thou  Italy ! 

Will  to  be  noble  !  Austrian  Metternich 
Can  fix  no  yoke,  uidess  the  neck  agree ; 

And  thine  is  like  the  lion's  when  the  thick 
Dews  shudder  from  it,  and  no  man  would  be 

The  stroker  of  his  mane,  much  less  would  prick 
His  nostril  with  a  reed.     When  nations  roar 

Like  lions,  who  shall  tame  them,  and  defraud 
Of  the  due  pasture  by  the  river-shore  ? 

Eoar,  therefore !  shake  your  dew-laps  dry  abroad 
The  amphitheatre  with  open  door 

Leads  back  upon  the  benches  who  applaud 
The  last  spear-thruster. 

Yet  the  heavens  forbid 

That  we  should  call  on  passion  to  confront 
The  brutal  with  the  brutal,  and,  amid 

This  ripening  world,  suggest  a  lion-hunt 
And  lion's  vengeance  for  the  wrongs  men  did 

And  do  now,  though  the  spears  are  getting  bhnit. 
We  only  call,  because  the  sight  and  proof 

Of  lion-strength  hurts  nothing ;  and  to  show 
A  lion -heart,  and  measure  paw  with  hoof, 

[46] 


^ 


ar- 


5>. 


^ 


o    c 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Helps  something,  even,  and  will  instruct  a  foe, 
As  well  as  the  onslaught,  how  to  stand  aloof : 

Or  else  the  world  gets  past  the  mere  brute  blow. 
Or  given  or  taken.     Children  use  the  fist 

Until  thej  are  of  age  to  use  the  brain ; 
And  so  we  needed  Csesars  to  assist 

Man^s  justice,  and  Napoleons  to  explain 
God^s  counsel,  when  a  point  was  nearly  missed. 

Until  our  generations  should  attain 
Christ''s  stature  nearer.     Not  that  we,  alas  ! 

Attain  already ;  but  a  single  inch 
Will  raise  to  look  down  on  the  swordsman^s  pass. 

As  knightly  Eoland  on  the  coward^'s  flinch  : 
And,  after  chloroform  and  ether-gas. 

We  find  out  slowly  what  the  bee  and  finch 
Have  ready  found,  through  Nature^s  lamp  in  each,  — 

How  to  our  races  we  may  justify 
Our  individual  claims,  and,  as  we  reach 
Our  own  grapes,  bend  the  top  vines  to  supply 
The  children''s  uses,  —  how  to  fill  a  breach 

With  olive-branches,  —  how  to  quench  a  lie 
With  truth,  and  smite  a  foe  upon  the  cheek 

With  Christ^s  most  conquering  kiss.     Why,  these  are 
things 
Worth  a  great  nation^s  finding,  to  prove  weak 

The  *'  glorious  arms  '^  of  military  kings. 
And  so,  wdth  wide  embrace,  my  England,  seek 

To  stifle  the  bad  heat  and  flickerings 
Of  this  world^s  false  and  nearly  expended  fire. 

[47] 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 

Draw  palpitating  arrows  to  the  wood, 
And  twang  abroad  thj  high  hopes  and  thy  higher 

Eesolves  from  that  most  virtuous  ahitude. 
Till  nations  shall  unconsciously  aspire 

By  looking  up  to  thee,  and  learn  that  good 
And  glory  are  not  different.     Announce  law 

By  freedom ;  exalt  chivalry  by  peace ; 
Instruct  how  clear,  calm  eyes  can  overawe. 

And  how  pure  hands,  stretched  simply  to  release 
A  bond-slave,  will  not  need  a  sword  to  draw 

To  be  held  dreadful.     O  my  England,  crease 
Thy  purple  with  no  alien  agonies, 

No  struggles  toward  encroachment,  no  vile  war ! 
Disband  thy  captains,  change  thy  victories ; 

Be  henceforth  prosperous,  as  the  angels  are. 
Helping,  not  humbling. 

Drums  and  battle-cries 

Go  out  in  music  of  the  morning-star; 
And  soon  we  shall  have  thinkers  in  the  place 

Of  fighters,  each  found  able  as  a  man 
To  strike  electric  influence  througli  a  race. 

Unstayed  by  city-wall  and  barbican. 
The  poet  shall  look  grander  in  the  face 

Than  even  of  old  (when  he  of  Greece  began 
To  shig  "  that  Achillean  wrath  which  slew 

So  many  heroes ''),  seeing  he  shall  treat 
The  deeds  of  souls  heroic  toward  the  true. 

The  oracles  of  life,  previsions  sweet 
[48] 


I—  ^ 


9?.  ^ 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

And  awful,  like  divine  swans  gliding  through 

White  arms  of  Ledas,  which  will  leave  the  heat 
Of  their  escaping  godship  to  endue 

The  human  medium  with  a  heavenly  flush. 
Meanwhile,  in  this  same  Italy  we  want 

Not  popular  passion,  to  arise  and  crush. 
But  popular  conscience,  which  may  covenant 

For  what  it  knows.     Concede  without  a  blush. 
To  grant  the  "  civic  guard "''  is  not  to  grant 

The  civic  spirit,  living  and  awake : 
Those  lappets  on  your  shoulders,  citizens. 

Your  eyes  strain  after  sideways  till  they  ache 
(While  still,  in  admirations  and  amens. 

The  crowd  comes  up  on  festa-days  to  take 
The  great  sight  in)  are  not  intelligeiice. 

Not  courage  even :  alas  !  if  not  the  sign 
Of  something  very  noble,  they  are  nought ; 

For  every  day  ye  dress  your  sallow  kiue 
With  fringes  down  their  cheeks,  though  unbesought 

They  loll  their  heavy  heads,  and  drag  the  wine. 
And  bear  the  wooden  yoke  as  they  w^ere  taught 

The  first  day.     What  ye  want  is  hght ;  indeed 
Not  sunlight  (ye  may  well  look  up  surprised 

To  those  unfathomable  heavens  that  feed 
Your  purple  hills),  but  God^s  light  organized 

In  some  high  soul  crowned  capable  to  lead 
The  conscious  people,  conscious  and  advised ; 

For,  if  we  lift  a  people  like  mere  clay. 
It  falls  the  same.     We  want  thee,  O  unfound 

4  [  49  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

And  sovran  teacher !  if  thy  beard  be  gray 
Or  black,  we  bid  thee  rise  up  from  the  ground. 

And  speak  the  word  God  giveth  thee  to  say, 
Inspiring  into  all  this  people  round, 

Instead  of  passion,  thought,  which  pioneers 
All  generous  passion,  purifies  from  sin. 

And  strikes  the  hour  for.     Eise  up,  teacher  !  here  ^s 
A  crowd  to  make  a  nation  !  best  begin 

By  making  each  a  man,  till  all  be  peers 
Of  earth^s  true  patriots  and  pure  martyrs  in 

Knowing  and  daring.     Best  unbar  the  doors 
Which  Peter^s  heirs  kept  locked  so  overdose 

They  only  let  the  mice  across  the  floors. 
While  every  churchman  dangles,  as  he  goes. 

The  great  key  at  his  girdle,  and  abhors 
In  Christ's  name  meekly.     Open  wide  the  house, 

Concede  the  entrance  with  Christ^s  liberal  mind. 
And  set  the  tables  with  his  wine  and  bread. 

What !  "  Commune  in  both  kinds  ? ''    In  every  kind  — 
Wine,  wafer,  love,  hope,  truth,  unlimited. 

Nothing  kept  back.     For,  when  a  man  is  blind 
To  starlight,  will  he  see  the  rose  is  red  ? 

A  bondsmnn  shivering  at  a  Jesuit's  foot  — 
"  Vsc  !  mea  culpa  ! ''  — is  not  like  to  stand 

A  freedman  at  a  despot's,  and  dispute 
His  titles  by  the  balance  in  his  hand. 

Weighing  tliem  "suo  jure."     Tend  tlir  root. 
If  careful  of  the  branches,  and  expand 

The  inner  souls  of  men  before  you  strive 

For  civic  heroes. 

[50] 


ly/rONUMENT  to  Dante  (buried 
at  llavenna)  in  Church  of 
Santa  Croce. 


"  The  architect  cnui  hcioeri       ; 
Did  pile  the  empty  marbles  as  thj  to^nh.'''' 

—  Casa  Giiidi  Windows,  p.  44. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

But  the  teacher,  w^here  ? 

From  all  these  crowded  faces,  all  alive. 
Eyes,  of  their  own  lids  flashing  themselves  bare, 

And  brows  that  with  a  mobile  life  contrive 
A  deeper  shadow,  —  may  we  in  no  wise  dare 

To  put  a  finger  out,  and  touch  a  man. 
And  cry,  "  This  is  the  leader  "  ?     What,  all  these  ! 

Broad  heads,  black  eyes,  yet  not  a  soul  that  ran 
From  God  down  with  a  message  ?  all,  to  please 

The  donna  waving  measures  with  her  fan. 
And  not  the  judgment- angel  on  his  knees, 

(The  trumpet  just  an  inch  off  from  his  lips,) 
Who,  when  he  breathes  next,  will  put  out  the  sun  ? 

Yet  mankind's  self  were  foundered  in  eclipse. 
If  lacking  doers,  with  great  works  to  be  done ; 

And  lo,  the  startled  earth  already  dips 
Back  into  light ;  a  better  day 's  begun ; 

And  soon  this  leader,  teacher,  will  stand  plain. 
And  build  the  golden  pipes  and  synthesize 

This  people-organ  for  a  holy  strain. 
We  hold  this  hope,  and  still  in  all  these  eyes 

Go  sounding  for  the  deep  look  which  shall  drain 
Suffused  thought  into  channelled  enterprise. 

Where  is  the  teacher?     What  now  may  he  do 
Who  shall  do  greatly  ?     Doth  he  gird  his  waist 

With  a  monk's  rope,  like  Luther?  or  pursue 
The  goat,  like  Tell  ?  or  dry  his  nets  in  haste, 

Like  Masaniello  when  tlie  sky  was  blue  ? 
[51  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   AVINDOWS 

Keep  house,  like  other  peasants,  with  inlaced 

Bare  brawny  arms  about  a  favorite  child. 
And  meditative  looks  beyond  the  door 

(But  not  to  mark  the  kidling^s  teeth  have  filed 
The  green  shoots  of  his  vine  which  last  year  bore 

Full  twenty  bunches),  or  on  triple-piled 
Throne-velvets  sit  at  ease  to  bless  the  poor. 

Like  other  pontiffs,  in  the  Poorest^s  name? 
The  old  tiara  keeps  itself  aslope 

Upon  his  steady  brows,  which,  all  the  same. 
Bend  mildly  to  permit  the  people^s  hope  ? 

Whatever  hand  shall  grasp  this  oriflamme 
Whatever  man  (last  peasant  or  first  pope 

Seeking  to  free  his  country)  shall  appear. 
Teach,  lead,  strike  fire  into  the  masses,  fill 

These  empty  bladders  with  fine  air,  insphere 
These  wills  into  a  unity  of  will. 

And  make  of  Italy  a  nation  —  dear 
And  blessed  be  that  man !  the  heavens  shall  kill 

No  leaf  the  earth  lets  grow  for  him,  and  Death 

Shall  cast  him  back  upon  the  lap  of  Life 

To  live  more  surely  in  a  clarion-breath 
Of  hero-music.     Brutus  with  the  knife, 

Rienzi  with  the  fasces,  throb  beneath 
Eome^s  stones,  —  and  more  who  threw  away  joy's  fife 

Like  Pallas,  that  the  beauty  of  tlieir  souls 
Might  ever  shine  untroubled  and  entire : 

But  if  it  can  be  true  that  he  who  rolls 
[52  J 


G 


ITOTTO  S  Portrait  of  Dante  in 
Ch.ipel  of  the  Bargello.  Dis- 
closed in  1850  by  removal  of 
whitewash  which  had  covered  it 
for  centuries. 


"  We  salute  thee  who  art  cowe 
Back  to  the  old  stone  with  a  softer  Irroio 
Than  Giotto  drew  upon  the  wall.'''' 

—  Casa  6uidi  Windows,  p.  45. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  Church^'s  thunders  will  reserve  her  fire 

For  only  lights  —  from  eucharistic  bowls 
Will  pour  new  life  for  nations  that  expire,, 

And  rend  the  scarlet  of  his  papal  vest 
To  gird  the  weak  loins  of  his  countrymen,  — 

I  hold  that  he  surpasses  all  the  rest 
Of  Eomans,  heroes,  patriots  ;  and  that  when 

He  sat  down  on  the  throne,  he  dispossessed 
The  first  graves  of  some  glory.     See  again. 

This  country-saving  is  a  glorious  thing ! 
And  if  a  common  man  achieved  it?     Well. 

Say,  a  rich  man  did  ?     Excellent.     A  king  ? 
That  grows  sublime  ?     A  priest  ?     Improbable. 

A  pope  ?     Ah,  there  we  stop,  and  cannot  bring 
Our  faith  up  to  the  leap,  with  history^s  bell 

So  heavy  round  the  neck  of  it,  albeit 
We  fain  would  grant  the  possibility 

Eor  thy  sake,  Pio  Nono ! 

Stretch  thy  feet 
In  that  case :  I  w' ill  kiss  them  reverently 

As  any  pilgrim  to  the  papal  seat : 
And,  such  proved  possible,  thy  throne  to  me 

Shall  seem  as  holy  a  place  as  Pellico^s 
Venetian  dungeon,  or  as  Spielberg's  grate. 

At  which  the  Lombard  woman  hung  the  rose 
Of  her  sweet  soul  by  its  own  dewy  weight. 

To  feel  the  dungeon  round  her  sunshine  close. 
And,  pining  so,  died  early,  yet  too  late 
[53] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

For  what  she  suffered.     Yea,  I  will  not  choose 
Betwixt  thy  throne,  Pope  Pius,  and  the  spot 

Marked  red  forever,  spite  of  rains  and  dews. 
Where  two  fell  riddled  by  the  Austrian's  shot, — 

The  brothers  Bandiera,  who  accuse. 
With  one  same  mother-voice  and  face  (that  what 

They  speak  may  be  invincible)  the  sins 
Of  earth's  tormentors  before  God  the  just, 

Until  the  unconscious  thunder-bolt  begins 
To  loosen  in  his  grasp. 

And  yet  we  must 

BewarC;  and  mark  the  natural  kiths  and  kins 
Of  circumstance  and  office,  and  distrust 

The  rich  man  reasoning  in  a  poor  man's  hut. 
The  poet  who  neglects  pure  truth  to  prove 

Statistic  fact,  the  child  who  leaves  a  rut 
For  a  smoother  road,  the  priest  who  vows  his  glove 

Exhales  no  grace,  the  prince  who  walks  afoot. 
The  woman  wlio  lias  sworn  she  will  not  love. 

And  this  Ninth  Pius  in  Scvontli  Gregory's  chair, 
With  Andrea  Doria's  forehead. 

Count  wliat  goes 
To  making  up  a  pope,  before  he  wear 
That  triple  crown.     We  pass  the  world-wide  throes 
Which  went  lo  ni;ik(^  the  p()])cdom,  —  the  despair 
Of  free  men,  gootl  men,  wise  men;  the  dread  shows 

Of  women's  faces,  by  the  fagot's  flash 
Tossed  out,  to  the  miimtest  stir  and  throb 

[54] 


G 


ATE  of  San  Niccolo 
(14th  century). 


''*  And  Petrarch  looks  no  mori'  from  Niccolo 
Toioard  dear  Arezzo,  "tioixt  the  acacia  trees." 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  60. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

0^  the  white  lips ;  the  least  tremble  of  a  lash. 
To  glut  the  red  stare  of  a  licensed  mob ; 

The  short  mad  cries  down  oubliettes,  and  plash 
So  horribly  far  off;  priests  trained  to  rob. 

And  kings,  that,  like  encouraged  nightmares,  sate 
On  nations^  hearts  most  heavily  distressed 

With  monstrous  sights  and  apothegms  of  fate  — 
We  pass  these  things,  because  "  the  times  "  are  prest 

With  necessary  charges  of  the  weight 
Of  all  this  sin,  and  "  Calvin,  for  the  rest. 

Made  bold  to  burn  Servetus.    Ah,  men  err!^^  — 
And  so  do  churches  !  which  is  all  we  mean 

To  bring  to  proof  in  any  register 
Of  theological  fat  kine  and  lean : 

So  drive  them  back  into  the  pens!  refer 
Old  sins  (with  pourpoint,  "quotha"  and  "I  ween") 

Entirely  to  the  old  times,  the  old  times ; 
Nor  ever  ask  why  this  preponderant 

Infallible  pure  Church  could  set  her  chimes 
Most  loudly  then,  just  then,  —  most  jubilant. 

Precisely  then,  when  mankind  stood  in  crimes 
Full  heart-deep,  and  Heaven's  judgments  were  not  scant. 

Inquire  still  less  what  signifies  a  church 
Of  perfect  inspiration  and  pure  laws 

Who  burns  the  first  man  with  a  brimstone-torch. 
And  grinds  the  second,  bone  by  bone,  because 

The  times,  forsooth,  are  used  to  rack  and  scorch  ! 
What  is  a  holy  Church  unless  she  awes 

The  times  down  from  their  sins  ?     Did  Christ  select 

[55] 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 

Such  amiable  times  to  come  and  teach 

Love  to,  and  mercy  ?    The  whole  world  were  wrecked 
If  every  mere  great  man,  who  lives  to  reach 

A  little  leaf  of  popular  respect, 
Attained  not  simply  by  some  special  breach 

In  the  age's  customs,  by  some  precedence 
In  thought  and  act,  which,  having  proved  him  higher 

Than  those  he  lived  w^ith,  proved  his  competence 
In  lielping  them  to  wonder  and  aspire. 

My  words  are  guiltless  of  the  bigot's  sense. 
My  soul  has  fire  to  mingle  with  the  fire 

Of  all  these  souls,  within  or  out  of  doors 
Of  Eome's  church  or  another.     I  believe 

In  one  Priest,  and  one  temple,  with  its  floors 
Of  shining  jasper  gloomed  at  morn  and  eve 

By  countless  knees  of  earnest  auditors. 
And  crystal  walls  too  lucid  to  perceive, 

That  none  may  take  the  measure  of  the  place 
And  say,  "  So  far  the  porphyry,  then  the  flint ; 

To  this  mark  mercy  goes,  and  there  ends  grace,'' 
Though  still  the  permeable  crystals  hint 

At  some  white  starry  distance,  bathed  in  space. 
I  feel  liow  Nature's  ice-crusts  keep  the  dint 

Of  undersprings  of  silent  Deity. 
I  hold  the  articulated  gospels  which 

Show  Christ  among  us  crucified  on  tree. 
I  love  all  who  love  truth,  if  poor  or  ricli 
In  what  they  have  won  of  truth  possessively. 

[  56  ] 


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CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

No  altars_,  and  no  hands  defiled  with  pitch, 
Shall  scare  me  off;  but  I  will  pray  and  eat 

With  all  these,  taking   leave  to  choose  my  ewers, 
And  say  at  last,  "  Your  visible  churches  cheat 

Their  inward  types ;  and,  if  a  church  assures 

Of  standing  ivithout  failure  and  defeat. 

The  same  both  fails  and  lies/^ 

To  leave  which  lures 

Of  wider  subject  through  past  years,  —  behold. 
We  come  back  from  the  popedom  to  the  pope. 

To  ponder  what  he  7)iust  be,  ere  we  are  bold 
For  what  he  mai/  be,  with  our  heavy  hope 

To  trust  upon  his  soul.     So,  fold  by  fold. 
Explore  this  mummy  in  the  priestly  cope. 

Transmitted  through  the  darks  of  time,  to  catch 
The  man  within  the  wrappage,  and  discern 

How  he,  an  honest  man,  upon  the  watch 
Full  fifty  years  for  what  a  man  may  learn, 

Contrived  to  get  just  there;  with  what  a  snatch 
Of  old-world  oboli  he  had  to  earn 

The  passage  through ;  with  what  a  drowsy  sop. 
To  drench  the  busy  barkings  of  his  brain ; 

What  ghosts  of  j^ale  tradition,  wreathed  with  hop 
^Gainst  wakeful  thouglit,  he  had  to  entertain 

For  heavenly  visions ;  and  consent  to  stop 
The  clock  at  noon,  and  let  the  hour  remain 

(AYithout  vain  windings-up)  inviolate 
Agahist  all  chimings  from  the  belfry.     Lo, 

[57] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

From  every  given  pope  you  must  abate. 
Albeit  you  love  him,  some  things  —  good,  you  know 

Which  every  given  heretic  you  hate, 
Assumes  for  his,  as  being  plainly  so. 

A  pope  must  hold  by  popes  a  little,  —  yes. 
By  councils,  from  Nicsea  up  to  Trent,  — 

By  hierocratic  empire,  more  or  less 
Irresponsible  to  men,  — ■  he  must  resent 

Each  man^s  particular  conscience,  and  repress 
Inquiry,  meditation,  argument. 

As  tyrants  faction.     Also,  he  must  not 
Love  truth  too  dangerously,  but  prefer 

"  The  interests  of  the  Church  "  (because  a  blot 
Is  better  than  a  rent,  in  miniver) ; 

Submit  to  see  the  people  swallow  hot 
Husk-porridge,  wdiich  his  chartered  churchmen  stir 

Quoting  the  only  true  God's  epigraph, 
"  Feed  my  lambs,  Peter !  "  must  consent  to  sit 

Attesting  with  his  pastoral  ring  and  stall* 
To  such  a  picture  of  our  Lady,  hit 

Off  wtII  by  artist-angels  (though  not  half 
As  fair  as  Giotto  would  have  painted  it)  ; 

To  such  a  vial,  where  a  dead  man's  blood 
Runs  yearly  warm  beneath  a  churchman's  linger; 

To  such  a  holy  house  of  stone  and  wood. 
Whereof  a  cloud  of  angels  was  the  bringer 

From  Betlilehem  to  Loreto.     AVere  it  good 
For  any  pope  on  earth  to  be  a  flinger 

Of  stones  against  these  high-niched  counterfeits  ? 
[58] 


TTNFINISHED  bust  of 
Brutus  by  Michel  Angelo 
in  Bargello. 


"  Where  Buonarroti  passionate^,/  tried  . 
From  out  the  close-clenched  marble  to  demand 
The  head  of  Rome's  sublimest  hoTuieide." 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  p.  43. 


"  Straight  his  plastic  hand 
Fell  back  before  his  prophet-soul,  and  left 
A  fragment,  a  maimed  Brutus. " 


—  Taaa  rtiiiHi  Winflows.  n    87. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Apostates  only  are  iconoclasts. 

He  dares  not  say,  while  this  false  thing  abets 
That  true  thing,  "  This  is  false/'     He  keeps  his  fasts 

And  prayers,  as  prayer  and  fast  were  silver  frets 
To  change  a  note  upon  a  string  that  lasts. 

And  make  a  lie  a  virtue.     Now,  if  he 
Did  more  than  this,  higher  hoped,  and  braver  dared, 

I  think  he  were  a  pope  in  jeopardy, 
Or  no  pope  rather,  for  his  truth  had  barred 

The  vaulting  of  his  life  ;  and  certainly. 
If  he  do  only  this,  mankind's  regard 

Moves  on  from  him  at  once  to  seek  some  new 
Teacher  and  leader.     He  is  good  and  great 

According  to  the  deeds  a  pope  can  do ; 
Most  liberal,  save  those  bonds  ;  affectionate. 

As  princes  may  be,  and,  as  priests  are,  true. 
But  only  the  Ninth  Pius  after  eight. 

When  all 's  praised  most.     At  best  and  hopefullest. 
He 's  pope  :  we  want  a  man  !     His  heart  beats  warm ; 

But,  like  the  prince  enchanted  to  the  waist. 
He  sits  in  stone,  and  hardens  by  a  charm 

Into  the  marble  of  his  throne  high-placed. 
Mild  benediction  waves  his  saintly  arm  — 

So,  good  !     But  what  we  want 's  a  perfect  man. 
Complete  and  all  alive  :  half  travertine 

Half  suits  our  need,  and  ill  subserves  our  plan. 
Peet,  knees,  nerves,  sinews,  energies  divine. 

Were  never  yet  too  much  for  men  who  ran 
In  such  hard  ways  as  must  be  this  of  thine, 

[59] 


CASA    GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Deliverer  whom  we  seek,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
Pope,  prince,  or  peasant !     If,  indeed,  the  first. 

The  noblest,  therefore !  since  the  heroic  heart 
Within  thee  must  be  great  enough  to  burst 

Those  trammels  buckling  to  the  baser  part 
Thy  saintly  peers  in  Rome,  who  crossed  and  cursed 

With  the  same  finger. 

Come,  appear,  be  found. 
If  pope  or  peasant,  come  !  we  hear  the  cock. 

The  courtier  of  the  mountains  when  first  crowned 
With  golden  dawn ;  and  orient  glories  flock 

To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  highest  ground. 
Take  voice,  and  work  !  we  wait  to  hear  thee  knock 

At  some  one  of  our  Florentine  nine  gates. 
On  each  of  which  was  imaged  a  sublime 

Face  of  a  Tuscan  genius,  which,  for  hate's 
And  love's  sake  both,  our  Florence  in  her  prime 

Turned  boldly  on  all  comers  to  her  states, 
As  heroes  turned  their  shields  in  antique  time 

Emblazoned  with  honorable  acts.     And  thoudi 
The  gates  are  blank  now  of  such  images, 

And  Petrarch  looks  no  more  from  Niccolo 
Toward  dear  Arezzo,  'twixt  the  acacia-trees. 

Nor  Dante,  from  gate  Gallo  —  still  we  know. 
Despite  the  razing  of  the  blazonries, 

Eemains  the  consecration  of  the  shield : 
The  dead  heroic  faces  will  start  out 

On  all  these  gates,  if  foes  should  take  the  field, 
[  60  ] 


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CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

And  blend  sublimely,  at  the  earliest  shout, 

With  living  heroes  who  will  scorn  to  yield 
A  hair's-breadth  even,  when,  gazing  round  about. 

They  find  in  what  a  glorious  company 
They  fight  the  foes  of  Florence.     Who  will  grudge 

His  one  poor  life,  when  that  great  man  we  see 
Has  given  five  hundred  years,  the  world  being  judge, 

To  help  the  glory  of  his  Italy  ? 
Who,  born  the  fair  side  of  the  Alps,  will  budge, 

When  Dante  stays,  when  Ariosto  stays. 
When  Petrarch  stays  for  ever  ?     Ye  bring  swords, 

My  Tuscans  ?     Ay,  if  wanted  in  this  haze. 
Bring  swords,  but  first  bring  souls,  —  bring  thoughts  and 
words, 

Unrusted  by  a  tear  of  yesterday^s. 
Yet  awful  by  its  wrong,  —  and  cut  these  cords. 

And  mow  this  green,  lush  falseness  to  the  roots. 
And  shut  the  mouth  of  hell  below  the  swathe  ! 

And,  if  ye  can  bring  songs  too,  let  the  Intel's 
Recoverable  music  softly  bathe 

Some  poet's  hand,  that,  through  all  bursts  and  bruits 
Of  popular  passion,  all  unripe  and  rathe 

Convictions  of  the  popular  intellect. 
Ye  may  not  lack  a  finger  up  the  air, 

Annunciative,  reproving,  pure,  erect. 
To  show  which  way  your  first  ideal  bare 

The  whiteness  of  its  wings  when  (sorely  pecked 
By  falcons  on  your  wrists)  it  unaware 

Arose  up  overhead  and  out  of  sight. 

[61  ] 


»        CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Meanwhile^  let  all  the  far  ends  of  the  world 

Breathe  back  the  deep  breath  of  their  old  delight, 
To  swell  the  Italian  banner  just  unfurled. 

Help,  lands  of  Europe  !  for,  if  Austria  fight. 
The  drums  will  bar  your  slumber.     Had  ye  curled 

The  laurel  for  your  thousand  artists'  brows. 
If  these  Italian  hands  had  planted  none  ? 

Can  any  sit  down  idle  in  the  house. 
Nor  hear  appeals  from  Buonarroti's  stone 

And  RaffaeFs  canvas,  rousing  and  to  rouse  ? 
Where 's  Poussin's  master  ?     Gallic  Avignon 

Bred  Laura,  and  Vaucluse's  fount  has  stirred 
The  heart  of  France  too  strongly,  as  it  lets 

Its  little  stream  out  (like  a  wizard's  bird 
Which  bounds  upon  its  emerald  wing,  and  wets 

The  rocks  on  each  side),  that  she  should  not  gird 
Her  loins  with  Charlemagne's  sword  when  foes  beset 

The  country  of  her  Petrarch.     Spain  may  well 
Be  minded  how  from  Italy  she  caught. 

To  mingle  with  her  tinkling  Moorish  bell, 
A  fuller  cadence  and  a  subtler  thought. 

And  even  the  New  World,  the  receptacle 
Of  freemen,  may  send  glad  men,  as  it  ought, 

To  greet  Vespucci  Amerigo's  door. 
While  England  claims,  by  trump  of  poetry, 

Verona,  Venice,  the  Raveniia-shore, 
And  dearer  holds  John  Milton's  Fiesole 

Than  Lauglande's  Malvern  with  the  stars  in  flower. 

[62] 


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CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS 

And  Vallombrosaj  we  two  went  to  see 

Last  June^  beloved  companion^  where  sublime 
The  mountains  live  in  holy  families, 

And  the  slow  pine-woods  ever  climb  and  climb 
Half  up  their  breasts,  just  stagger  as  they  seize 

Some  gray  crag,  drop  back  with  it  many  a  time, 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  precipice. 

The  Vallombrosan  brooks  were  strewn  as  thick 
That  June  day,  knee-deep  with  dead  beechen  leaves. 

As  Milton  saw  them  ere  his  heart  grew  sick. 
And  his  eyes  blind.     I  think  the  monks  and  beeves 

Are  all  the  same  too  :  scarce  have  they  changed  the  wick 
On  good  St.  Gualbert's  altar  which  receives 

The  convent's  pilgrims ;  and  the  pool  in  front 
(Wherein  the  hill-stream  trout  are  cast,  to  wait 

The  beatific  vision  and  the  grunt 
Used  at  refectory)  keeps  its  weedy  state. 

To  baffle  saintly  abbots  who  would  count 
The  fish  across  their  breviary,  nor  ''bate 

The  measure  of  their  steps.     0  waterfalls 
And  forests  !  sound  and  silence  !  mountains  bare. 

That  leap  up  peak  by  peak,  and  catch  the  palls 
Of  purple  and  silver  mist  to  rend  and  share 

With  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunbeams,  —  till  we  cannot  dare 

Fix  your  shapes,  count  your  number !  we  must  think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped  to  fill 

The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the  brink. 
He  nevermore  was  thirsty  when  God's  will 

[63] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last  chain-link 
By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Nature's  visible 

The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by  this. 
He  sang  of  Adam's  paradise,  and  smiled, 

Eemembering  Vallombrosa.     Therefore  is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and  child. 

And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here  m  a  kiss. 

For  Italy  's  the  whole  earth's  treasury,  piled 

With  reveries  of  gentle  ladies.  Hung 
Aside,  like  ravelled  silk,  from  life's  worn  stuff; 

With  coins  of  scholars'  fancy,  which,  being  rung 
On  workday  counter,  still  sound  silver-proof : 

In  short,  with  all  the  dreams  of  dreamers  young, 
Before  their  heads  have  time  for  slipping  off 

Hope's  pillow  to  the  ground.     How  oft,  indeed, 
We  've  sent  our  souls  out  from  the  rigid  north, 

On  bare  white  feet  which  would  not  print  nor  bleed, 
To  climb  the  Alpine  passes,  and  look  forth. 

Where  booming  low  the  Lombard  rivers  lead 
To  gardens,  vineyards,  all  a  dream  is  worth,  — 

Sights  thou  and  I,  love,  have  seen  afterward 
From  Tuscan  Bellosguardo,  wide  awake,^ 

When,  standing  on  the  actual  blessed  sward 
Where  Galileo  stood  at  nights  to  take 

The  vision  of  the  stars,  we  have  found  it  hard, 
Gazing  upon  the  earth  and  heaven,  to  make 

A  choice  of  beauty. 

1  Galileo's   villa,    close   to   Floreuce,    is   built  on  au  emiucuce    called 
Bellosguardo. 

[64] 


CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS 

Therefore  let  us  all 
Refreshed  in  England  or  in  other  land, 

Bj  visions,  with  their  fountain  rise  and  fall, 
Of  this  earth^s  darling,  —  we,  who  understand 

A  little  how  the  Tuscan  musical 
Vowels  do  round  themselves  as  if  they  planned 

Eternities  of  separate  sweetness,  —  we. 
Who  loved  Sorrento  vines  in  picture-book. 

Or  ere  in  mnecup  we  pledged  faith  or  glee,  — 
Who  loved  Rome's  wolf  with  demigods  at  suck, 

Or  ere  we  loved  truth's  own  divinity,  — 
Who  loved,  in  brief,  the  classic  hill  and  brook. 

And  Ovid's  dreaming  tales  and  Petrarch's  song. 
Or  ere  we  loved  Love's  self  even,  —  let  us  give 

The  blessing  of  our  souls  (and  wish  them  strong 
To  bear  it  to  the  height  where  prayers  arrive. 

When  faithful  spirits  pray  against  a  wrong,) 
To  this  great  cause  of  southern  men  who  strive 

In  God's  name  for  man's  rights,  and  shall  not  fail ! 

Behold,  they  shall  not  fail.     The  shouts  ascend 

Above  the  shrieks,  in  Naples,  and  prevail. 
Rows  of  shot  corpses,  waiting  for  the  end 

Of  burial,  seem  to  smile  up  straight  and  pale 
Into  the  azure  air,  and  apprehend 

That  final  gun-flash  from  Palermo's  coast 
Which  lightens  their  apocalypse  of  death.  * 

So  let  them  die  !     The  world  shows  nothing  lost ; 
Therefore  not  blood.     Above  or  underneath, 

5  [65  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

What  matter,  brothers,  if  ye  keep  your  post 
On  duty's  side  ?     As  sword  returns  to  sheath. 

So  dust  to  grave ;  but  souls  find  place  in  heaven. 
Heroic  daring  is  the  true  success, 

The  eucharistic  bread  requires  no  leaven ; 
And,  though  your  ends  were  hopeless,  we  should  bless 

Your  cause  as  holy.     Strive  —  and,  having  striven, 
Take  for  God's  recompense  that  righteousness ! 


[66] 


c 


AMPANILE,  with  Cathedral 
and  Baptistry. 


"  The  startling  bell-toicer  Giotto  rriised.^ 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  105, 

"  Thy  great  campanile  is  still  to  finish.'''' 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  111. 

*'  Here  xohere  Giotto  2>lanted 
His  campanile  like  an  nnperplext 
Fine  question  heavenward.''^ 

—  Casa  Guidi  Windows,  pp.  24,  25. 


CASA   GUIDI    WINDOWS 


part  3rh30 

I  WROTE  a  meditation  and  a  dream, 

Hearing  a  little  child  sing  in  the  street : 
I  leant  upon  his  music  as  a  theme. 

Till  it  gave  way  beneath  my  heart's  full  beat 
Which  tried  at  an  exultant  prophecy, 

But  dropped  before  the  measure  was  complete  — 
Alas  for  songs  and  hearts  !     O  Tuscany, 

O  Dante's  Florence,  is  the  type  too  plain? 
Didst  thou,  too,  only  sing  of  liberty. 

As  little  children  take  up  a  high  strain 
With  unintentioned  voices,  and  break  off 

To  sleep  upon  their  mothers'  knees  again  ? 
Couldst  thou  not  watch  one  hour  ?  then  sleep  enough, 

That  sleep  may  hasten  manhood,  and  sustain 
The  faint,  pale  spirit  with  some  muscular  stuff. 

But  we  who  cannot  slumber  as  thou  dost ; 
We  thinkers,  who  have  thought  for  thee,  and  failed ; 

We  hopers,  who  have  hoped  for  thee,  and  lost ; 
We  poets,  wandered  round  by  dreams,^  who  hailed 

From  this  Atrides'  roof  (with  lintel-post 
Which  still  drips  blood,  —  the  worse  part  hath  prevailed) 

The  fire-voice  of  the  beacons  to  declare 

1  See  the  opening  passage  of  the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus. 

[67] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Troy  taken,  sorrow  ended,  —  cozened  through 

A  crimson  sunset  in  a  misty  air, 
"What  now  remains  for  such  as  we  to  do  ? 

God's  judgments,  perad venture,  will  he  bare 
To  the  roots  of  thunder,  if  we  kneel  and  sue  ? 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked  fortli. 
And  saw  ten  thousand  eyes  of  Florentines 

Flash  back  the  triumph  of  the  Lombard  north,  — 
Saw  fifty  banners,  freighted  with  the  signs 

And  exultations  of  the  awakened  earth, 
Float  on  above  the  multitude  in  lines. 

Straight  to  the  Pitti.     So,  the  vision  went. 
And  so,  between  those  populous  rough  hands 

Raised  in  the  sun,  Duke  Leopold  outleant. 
And  took  the  patriot's  oath  which  henceforth  stands 

Among  tlie  oaths  of  perjurers,  eminent 
To  catch  the  lightnings  ripened  for  these  lands. 

Why  swear  at  all,    thou  false  Duke  Leopold  ? 

What  need  to  swear  ?     AVhat  need  to  boast  thy  blood 

Unspoilt  of  Austria,  and  thy  heart  unsold 
Away  from  Florence  ?     It  was  understood 

God  made  thee  not  too  vigorous  or  too  bold  ; 
And  moil  had  ])atience  with  thy  quiet  mood, 

And  women  pity,  as  they  saw  thee  pace 
Their  festive  streets  with  premature  gray  hairs. 

We  turned  tlic  mild  dejection  of  tliy  face 
To  princely  meanings,  took  tliy  wrinkling  cares 

[68] 


>ORTRAIT  of  Michel  Aiigelo 
Buonarroti,  painted  by  him- 
self.    Uffizi  Gallery. 


"  They  are  safe  in  heaven  .... 

The  Michaela  and  Rafaels,  you  hum  and  buzz 

Rmind  the  works  of^  you  of  the  little  mit.^" 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  107, 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

For  ruffling  hopes_,  and  called  thee  weak^  not  base. 
Nay,  better  light  the  torches  for  more  prayers, 

And  smoke  the  pale  Madonnas  at  the  shrine,  — 
Being  still  "  our  poor  Grand-duke,  our  good  Grand-duke, 

Who  cannot  help  the  Austrian  in  his  line,''^  — 
Than  write  an  oath  upon  a  nation's  book 

For  men  to  spit  at  with  scorn^s  blurring  brine ! 
Who  dares  forgive  what  none  can  overlook  ? 

For  me,  I  do  repent  me  in  this  dust 
Of  towns  and  temples  which  makes  Italy ; 

I  sigh  amid  the  sighs  which  breathe  a  gust 
Of  dying  century  to  century 

Around  us  on  the  uneven  crater-crust 
Of  these  old  worlds ;  I  bow  my  soul  and  knee. 

Absolve  me,  patriots,  of  my  woman^s  fault 
That  ever  I  believed  the  man  was  true ! 

These  sceptred  strangers  shun  the  common  salt, 
And  therefore,  when  the  general  board '?,  in  view, 

And  they  stand  up  to  carve  for  blind  and  halt. 
The  wise  suspect  the  viands  which  ensue. 

I  much  repent,  that  in  this  time  and  place, 
Where  many  corpse-lights  of  experience  bum 

From  Csesar^s  and  Lorenzo^s  festering  race, 
To  enlighten  groping  reasoners,  I  could  learn 

No  better  counsel  for  a  simple  case 
Than  to  put  faith  in  princes,  in  my  turn. 

Had  all  the  death-piles  of  the  ancient  years 
Flared  up  in  vain  before  me  ?  knew  I  not 

[69] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

What  stench  arises  from  some  purple  gears  ? 
And  how  the  sceptres  witness  whence  they  got 

Their  brier-wood^  crackling  through  the  atmosphere^s 
Eoul  smoke,  by  princely  perjuries  kept  hot? 

Forgive  me,  ghosts  of  patriots,  —  Brutus,  thou 
Who  trailest  down  hill  into  life  again 

Thy  blood-weighed  cloak,  to  indict  me  with  thy  slow, 
Eeproachful  eyes  !  —  for  being  taught  in  vain. 

That,  while  the  illegitimate  Caesars  show 
Of  meaner  stature  than  the  first  full  strain 

(Confessed  incompetent  to  conquer  Gaul,) 
They  swoon  as  feebly,  and  cross  Rubicons 

As  rashly,  as  any  Julius  of  them  all ! 
Forgive,  that  I  forgot  the  mind  which  runs 

Through  absolute  races,  too  unsceptical ! 
I  saw  the  man  among  his  little  sons. 

His  lips  were  warm  with  kisses  while  he  swore; 
And  I,  because  I  am  a  woman,  I, 

Who  felt  my  own  child's  coming  life  before 
The  prescience  of  my  soul,  and  held  faith  high,  — 

I  could  not  bear  to  tliink,  whoever  bore, 
That  lips  so  warmed  could  shape  so  cold  a  lie. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked  out. 
Again  looked,  and  beheld  a  different  sight. 

The  Duke  had  fled  before  the  people's  shout 
"  Long  live  the  Duke  ! ''     A  people,  to  speak  right. 

Must  speak  as  soft  as  courtiers,  lest  a  doubt 
Should  curdle  brows  of  gracious  sovereigns  white. 

[70] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Moreover,  that  same  dangerous  shouting  meant 
Some  gratitude  for  future  favors  which 

Were  only  promised,  the  Constituent 
Implied ;  the  whole  being  subject  to  the  hitch 

In  "  motu  proprios/^  very  incident 
To  all  these  Czars,  from  Paul  to  Paulovitch. 

Whereat  the  people  rose  up  in  the  dust 
Of  the  ruler's  flying  feet,  and  shouted  still 

And  loudly ;  only,  this  time,  as  was  just. 
Not  "  Live  the  Duke !  "  who  had  fled  for  good  or  ill. 

But  "  Live  the  People  ! ''  who  remained  and  must, 
The  unrenounced  and  unrenounceable. 

Long  live  the  people  !     How  they  lived  !  and  boiled 
And  bubbled  in  the  caldron  of  the  street ! 

How  the  young  blustered,  nor  the  old  recoiled ! 
And  what  a  thunderous  stir  of  tongues  and  feet 

Trod  flat  the  palpitating  bells,  and  foiled 
The  joy-guns  of  their  echo,  shattering  it ! 

How  down  they  pulled  the  Duke's  arms  everywhere ! 
How  up  they  set  new  cafe-signs,  to  show 

Where  patriots  might  sip  ices  in  pure  air  — 
(The  fresh  paint  smelling  somewhat)  !     To  and  fro 

How  marched  the  civic  guard,  and  stopped  to  stare 
When  boys  broke  windows  in  a  civic  glow ! 

How  rebel  songs  were  sung  to  loyal  tunes. 
And  bishops  cursed  in  ecclesiastic  metres  ! 

How  all  the  Circoli  grew  large  as  moons. 
And  all  the  speakers,  moonstruck,  —  thankful  greeters 

[71] 


CASA   GUIDI   AVINDOWS 

Of  prospects  which  struck  poor  the  ducal  boons, 
A  mere  free  Press  and  Chambers !  frank  repeaters 

Of  great  Guerazzi^s  praises  —  "  There  ^s  a  man^ 
The  father  of  the  land,  who,  truly  great. 

Takes  off  that  national  disgrace  and  ban. 
The  farthing-tax  upon  our  Florence-gate, 

And  saves  Italia  as  he  only  can ! " 
How  all  tlie  nobles  fled,  and  would  not  wait. 

Because  they  were  most  noble!  which  being  so. 
How  Liberals  vowed  to  burn  their  palaces. 

Because  free  Tuscans  were  not  free  to  go ! 
How  grown  men  raged  at  Austria's  wickedness. 

And  smoked,  while  fifty  striplings  in  a  row 
Marched  straight  to  Piedmont  for  the  wrong's  redress  ! 

You  say  we  failed  in  duty,  —  we  who  wore 
Black  velvet  like  Italian  democrats, 

Who  slashed  our  sleeves  like  patriots,  nor  forswore 
The  true  republic  in  the  form  of  hats  ? 

We  chased  the  archbishop  from  the  Duomo  door. 
We  chalked  the  walls  with  bloody  caveats 

Against  all  tyrants.     If  we  did  not  fight 
Exactly,  we  fired  muskets  up  the  air 

To  show  that  victory  was  ours  of  right. 
We  met,  had  free  discussion  everywhere 
(Except,  perhaps,  i'  the  Chambers)  day  and  night. 
We  proved  the  poor  should  be  employed  .  .  .  that's  fair,- 

And  yet  tlie  rich  not  worked  for  anywise,  — 
Pay  certified,  yet  payers  abrogated. 

Full  work  secured,  yet  liabilities 

[72] 


)ORTUAIT  of  Raphael  Sanzio, 
painted  by  himself.  lu  Uffizi 
Gallery. 


"  Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old'sdope. 
Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face  ?  " 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  107. 


»>••«• 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

To  overwork  excluded,  —  not  one  bated 

Of  all  our  holidays,  that  still,  at  twice 
Or  thrice  a  week,  are  moderately  rated. 

We  proved  that  Austria  was  dislodged,  or  would 
Or  should  be,  and  that  Tuscany  in  arms 

Should,  would,  dislodge  her,  ending  the  old  feud ; 
And  yet  to  leave  our  piazzas,  shops,  and  farms. 

For  the  simple  sake  of  figliting,  was  not  good  — 
We  proved  that  also.     "Did  we  carry  charms 

Against  being  killed  ourselves,  that  we  should  rush 
On  killing  others?  what,  desert  herewith 

Our  wives  and  mothers? — was  that  duty?     Tush!" 
At  which  we  shook  the  sword  within  the  sheath 

Like  heroes,  only  louder;  and  the  flush 
E/an  up  the  cheek  to  meet  the  future  wreath. 

Nay,  what  we  proved,  we  shouted  —  how  we  shouted  ! 
(Especially  the  boys  did),  boldly  planting 

That  tree  of  liberty,  whose  fruit  is  doubted. 
Because  the  roots  are  not  of  Nature's  granting. 

A  tree  of  good  and  evil :  none,  without  it, 
Grow  gods ;  alas  !  and,  with  it,  men  are  wanting. 

0  holy  knowledge,  holy  liberty  ! 
O  holy  rights  of  nations  !     If  I  speak 

These  bitter  things  against  the  jugglery 
Of  days  that  in  your  names  proved  blind  and  weak, 

It  is  that  tears  are  bitter.     When  we  see 
The  brown  skulls  grin  at  death  in  churchyards  bleak. 

We  do  not  cry,  "  This  Yorick  is  too  light,'' 

[73] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Por  death  grows  deatlilier  with  that  mouth  he  makes. 

So  with  my  mocking.     Bitter  things  I  write 
Because  my  soul  is  bitter  for  your  sakes, 

O  freedom  !  0  my  Florence  ! 

Men  who  might 
Do  greatly  in  a  universe  that  breaks 

And  burns,  must  ever  knoio  before  they  do. 
Courage  and  patience  are  but  sacrifice ; 

And  sacrifice  is  ofi'ered  for  and  to 
Something  conceived  of.     Each  man  pays  a  price 

Tor  what  himself  counts  precious,  whether  true 
Or  false  the  appreciation  it  implies. 

But  here,  —  no  knowledge,  no  conception,  nought ! 
Desire  was  absent,  that  provides  great  deeds 

From  out  the  greatness  of  prevenient  tliouglit ; 
And  action,  action,  like  a  flame  that  needs 

A  steady  breath  and  fuel,  being  caught 
Up,  like  a  burning  reed  from  other  reeds. 

Flashed  in  the  empty  and  uncertain  air. 
Then  wavered,  then  went  out.      Behold,  who  blames 

A  crooked  course,  when  not  a  goal  is  there 
To  round  the  fervid  striving  of  tlie  games  ? 

An  ignorance  of  means  may  minister 
To  greatness ;  but  an  ignorance  of  aims 

Makes  it  impossible  to  be  great  at  all. 
So  with  our  Tuscans.     Let  none  dare  to  say, 

"  Here  virtue  never  can  be  national ; 
Here  fortitude  can  never  cut  a  way 

[74] 


K)RTRAIT  of  Leonardo  da 
Vinci,  painted  by  himself. 
In  Uffizi  Gallery. 


"  A  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother, 
iJa  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  DeUos.^^ 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Floreuce,  p.  108. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Between  the  Austrian  muskets^  out  of  thrall : 
I  tell  you  rather,  that  whoever  may 

Discern  true  ends  here  shall  grow  pure  enough 
To  love  them,  brave  enough  to  strive  for  them. 

And  strong  to  reach  them,  though  the  roads  be  rough ; 
That,  having  learnt  —  by  no  mere  apothegm  — 

Not  just  the  draping  of  a  graceful  stuff 
About  a  statue,  broidered  at  the  hem,  — 

Not  just  the  trilling  on  an  opera-stage, 
Of  "  liberta  "'■'  to  bravos  —  (a  fair  word. 

Yet  too  allied  to  inarticulate  rage 
And  breathless  sobs,  for  singing,  though  the  chord 

Were  deeper  than  they  struck  it)  but  the  gauge 
Of  civil  wants  sustained,  and  wrongs  abhorred. 

The  serious,  sacred  meaning  and  full  use 
Of  freedom  for  a  nation,  —  then,  indeed. 

Our  Tuscans,  underneath  the  bloody  dews 
Of  some  new  morning,  rising  up  agreed 

And  bold,  will  want  no  Saxon  souls  or  thews 
To  sweep  their  piazzas  clear  of  Austria^s  breed. 

Alas,  alas !  it  was  not  so  this  time. 
Conviction  was  not,  courage  failed,  and  truth 

Was  something  to  be  doubted  of.     The  mime 
Changed  masks,  because  a  mime.     The  tide  as  smooth 

In  running  in  as  out,  no  sense  of  crime 
Because  no  sense  of  virtue.     Sudden  ruth 

Seized  on  the  people  :  they  would  have  again 
Their  good  Grand-duke,  and  leave  Guerazzi,  though 

[75] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

He  took  tliat  tax  from  Florence.     "  Much  in  vain 
He  takes  it  from  the  market-carts^  we  trow. 

While  urgent  that  no  market-men  remain, 
But  all  march  off,  and  leave  the  spade  and  plough 

To  die  among  the  Lombards.     Was  it  thus 
The  dear  j^aternal  Duke  did  ?     Live  the  Duke  !  " 

At  which  the  joy-bells  multitudinous. 
Swept  by  an  opposite  wind,  as  loudly  shook. 

Call  back  the  mild  archbishop  to  his  house. 
To  bless  the  people  with  his  frightened  look,  — 

He  shall  not  yet  be  hanged,  you  comprehend  ! 
Seize  on  Guerazzi ;  guard  him  in  full  view. 

Or  else  we  stab  him  in  the  back  to  end  ! 
Eub  out  those  chalked  devices,  set  up  new 

The  Duke's  arms,  dofP  your  Phrygian  caps,  and  mend 
The  pavement  of  the  piazzas  broke  into 

By  barren  poles  of  freedom  :  smooth  the  way 
For  the  ducal  carriage,  lest  his  Highness  sigh, 

"  Here  trees  of  liberty  grew  yesterday  ! '' 
"  Long  live  the  Duke  !  ^'     How  roared  the  cannonry  ! 

How  rocked  the  bell-towers  !    and  through  thickening 
spray 
Of  nosegays,  wreaths,  and  kerchiefs  tossed  on  high. 

How  marched  the  civic  guard,  the  people  still 
Being  good  at  sliouts,  especially  the  boys  ! 

Alas,  poor  people,  of  an  uniledged  will 
Most  fitly  expressed  by  such  a  callow  voice  ! 

Alas,  still  poorer  Duke,  incapable 
Of  being  worthy  even  of  so  much  noise  ! 

[  ^G  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

You  think  he  came  back  instantly _,  with  thanks^ 
And  tears  in  his  faint  eyes,  and  hands  extended 

To  stretch  the  franchise  through  their  utmost  ranks  ? 
That  having,  like  a  father  apprehended. 

He  came  to  pardon  fatherly  those  pranks 
Played  out,  and  now  in  filial  service  ended  ? 

That  some  love-token,  like  a  prince,  he  threw 
To  meet  the  people^s  love-call  in  return  ? 

Well,  how  he  came  I  will  relate  to  you ; 
And  if  your  hearts  should  burn  —  wliy,  hearts  ?nnst  burn. 

To  make  the  ashes  which  things  old  and  new 
Shall  be  washed  clean  in  —  as  this  Duke  will  learn. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  gazing  then, 
I  saw  and  witness  how  the  Duke  came  back. 

The  regular  tramp  of  horse,  and  tread  of  men. 
Did  smite  the  silence  like  an  anvil  black 

And  sparkless.     With  her  wide  eyes  at  full  strain. 
Our  Tuscan  nurse  exclaimed,  ''  Alack,  alack, 

Signora  !  these  shall  be  the  Austrians.^^  —  ^^  Nay, 
Be  still,''^  I  answered ;  "do  not  wake  the  child  ! '' 

—  For  so,  my  two-months'  baby  sleeping  lay 
In  milky  dreams  upon  the  bed,  and  smiled. 

And  I  thought,  "  He  shall  sleep  on,  while  he  may, 
Through  the  world's  baseness  :  not  being  yet  defiled. 

Why  should  he  be  disturbed  by  what  is  done  ?  " 
Then,  gazing,  I  beheld  the  long-drawn  street 

Live  out,  from  end  to  end,  full  in  the  sun, 
With  Austria^s  thousand ;  sword  and  bayonet, 

[  77  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Horse,  foot,  artillery,  cannons  rolling  on 
Like  blind,  slow  storm-clouds  gestant  with  the  heat 

Of  undeveloped  lightnings,  each  bestrode 
By  a  single  man,  dust-white  from  head  to  heel, 

Indifferent  as  the  dreadful  thing  he  rode. 
Like  a  sculptured  Fate  serene  and  terrible. 

As  some  smooth  river  which  has  overflowed, 
Will  slow  and  silent  down  its  current  wheel 

A  loosened  forest,  aU  the  pines  erect. 
So  swept,  in  mute  significance  of  storm. 

The  marshalled  thousands  ;  not  an  eye  deflect 
To  left  or  right,  to  catch  a  novel  form 

Of  Florence  city  adorned  by  architect 
A  nd  carver,  or  of  beauties  live  and  warm 

Scared  at  the  casements,  —  all,  straightforward  eyes 
And  faces,  held  as  steadfast  as  their  swords. 

And  cognizant  of  acts,  not  imageries. 
The  key,  0  Tuscans,  too  well  fits  the  wards  ! 

Ye  asked  for  mimes,  — these  bring  you  tragedies; 
For  purple,  —  these  shall  wear  it  as  your  lords. 

Ye  played  like  children,  —  die  like  innocents. 
Ye  mimicked  lightnings  with  a  torch,  — the  crack 

Of  the  actual  bolt,  your  pastime  circumvents. 
Ye  called  up  ghosts,  believing  they  were  slack 

To  follow  any  voice  from  Gilboa's  tents  .  .  . 
Here  's  Samuel !  — and  so.  Grand-dukes  come  back  ! 

And  yet  they  are  no  prophets,  though  they  come : 
That  awful  mantle  they  are  drawing  close 

[78  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Shall  be  searched  one  day  by  the  shafts  of  doom 
Through  double  folds  now  hoodwinking  the  brows. 

Eesuscitated  monarchs  disentomb 
Grave-reptiles  with  them  in  their  new  life-throes. 

Let  such  beware.     Behold,  the  people  waits, 
Like  God :  as  he,  in  his  serene  of  might, 

So  they,  in  their  endurance  of  long  straits. 
Ye  stamp  no  nation  out,  though  day  and  night 

Ye  tread  them  with  that  absolute  heel  which  grates 
And  grinds  them  flat  from  all  attempted  height. 

You  kill  worms  sooner  with  a  garden  spade 
Than  you  kill  peoples  ;  peoples  will  not  die  ; 

The  tail  curls  stronger  when  you  lop  the  head  : 
They  writhe  at  every  wound,  and  multiply 

And  shudder  into  a  heap  of  life  that 's  made 
Thus  vital  from  God's  own  vitality. 

'T  is  hard  to  shrivel  back  a  day  of  God^s 
Once  fixed  for  judgment ;  't  is  as  hard  to  change 

The  peoples  when  they  rise  beneath  their  loads. 
And  heave  them  from  their  backs  with  violent  wrench 

To  crush  the  oppressor  :  for  that  judgment  rod^s 
The  measure  of  this  popular  revenge. 

Meanwhile,  from  Casa  Guidi  windows,  we 
Beheld  the  armament  of  Austria  flow 

Into  the  drowning  heart  of  Tuscany ; 
And  yet  none  wept,  none  cursed,  or,  if  't  was  so, 

They  wept  and  cursed  in  silence.     Silently 
Our  noisy  Tuscans  watched  the  invading  foe ; 

[79  ] 


'*  CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

They  had  learnt  silence.     Pressed  against  the  wall. 
And  grouped  upon  the  church-steps  opposite, 

A  few  pale  men  and  women  stared  at  all. 
God  knows  what  they  were  feeling,  with  their  white 

Constrained  faces,  —  they  so  prodigal 
Of  cry  and  gesture  when  the  world  goes  right, 

Or  wrong  indeed.     But  here  was  depth  of  wrong, 
And  here,  still  water  :  they  were  silent  here ; 

And  through  that  sentient  silence  struck  along 
That  measured  tramp  from  which  it  stood  out  clear. 

Distinct  the  sound  and  silence,  like  a  gong 
At  midnight,  each  by  the  other  awfuUer,  — 

While  every  soldier  in  liis  cap  displayed 
A  leaf  of  olive.     Dusty,  bitter  thing  ! 

Was  such  plucked  at  Novara,  is  it  said  ? 

A  cry  is  up  in  England,  which  doth  ring 

The  hollow  world  through,  that  for  ends  of  trade 
And  virtue,  and  God's  better  worshipping, 

We  henceforth  should  exalt  the  name  of  Peace, 
And  leave  those  rusty  wars  that  eat  the  soul,  — 

Besides  their  clippings  at  our  golden  fleece. 
I,  too,  have  loved  peace,  and  from  bole  to  bole 

Of  immemorial  undcciduous  trees 
Would  write,  as  lovers  use  upon  a  scroll. 

The  holy  name  of  Peace,  and  set  it  higli 
Where  none  could  pluck  it  down.     On  trees,  I  say, 

Not  upon  gibbets  !  —  With  the  greenery 
Of  dewy  branches  and  the  flowery  May, 

[80] 


N 


10  BE  and  her  Daughter. 
Statue  in  Uffizi   Gallery. 


"  You  're  grieved 


still  Niohe  '*  the  f/rander  !  " 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  109. 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and  sky 
Providing,  for  tlie  shepherd^s  holiday. 

Not  upon  gibbets  !  though  the  vulture  leaves 
The  bones  to  quiet,,  which  he  first  picked  bare. 

Not  upon  dungeons  !  though  the  wretch  who  grieves 
And  groans  within,  less  stirs  the  outer  air 

Than  any  little  field-mouse  stirs  the  sheaves. 
Not  upon  chain-bolts  !  though  the  slave's  despair 

Has  dulled  his  helpless  miserable  brain, 
And  left  him  blank  beneath  the  freeman's  whip 

To  sing  and  laugh  out  idiocies  of  pain. 
Nor  yet  on  starving  homes  !  where  many  a  lip 

Has  sobbed  itself  asleep  through  curses  vain. 
I  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellowship. 

And  which  includes  not  mercy.     I  would  have 
Bather  the  raking  of  the  guns  across 

The  world,  and  shrieks  against  heaven's  architrave ; 
Kather  the  struggle  in  the  slippery  fosse 

Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the  wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  .  Enough   said !  —  by   Christy's  own 
cross, 

And  by  this  faint  heart  of  my  womanhood. 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace  that  sits 

Beside  a  hearth  in  self-commended  mood. 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and  rain  bv  fits 

Are  howling  out  of  doors  against  the  good 
Of  the  poor  wanderer.     "What !  your  peace  admits 

Of  outside  anguish  while  it  keeps  at  home  ? 
I  loathe  to  take  its  name  upon  my  tongue. 
6  [81    ] 


"  CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

^T  is  nowise  peace  :  ^t  is  treason,  stiff  with  doom ; 
■'T  is  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate  wrong, 

Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Eome, 
Dazed  Naples,  Hungary  fainting  ^neath  the  thong, 

And  Austria  wearing  a  sraootli  olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs  outpress 

The  life  from  these  Italian  souls  in  brief. 
0  Lord  of  peace,  who  art  Lord  of  righteousness, 

Constrain  the  anguished  worlds  from  sin  and  grief. 
Pierce  them  with  conscience,  purge  them  with  redress. 

And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  counterfeit ! 
But  wherefore  should  we  look  out  any  more 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows?     Shut  them  straight. 
And  let  us  sit  down  by  the  folded  door. 

And  veil  our  saddened  faces,  and  so  wait 
What  next  the  judgment-heavens  make  ready  for. 

I  have  grown  too  weary  of  these  windows.     Sights 
Come  tliick  enougli  and  clear  cnougli  in  thought. 

Without  the  sunshine  :  souls  have  inner  lidits. 
And  since  the  Grand-duke  lias  come  back,  and  brouglit 

This  army  of  the  North  which  thus  requites 
His  filial  South,  we  leave  liim  to  be  taught. 

His  Soudi,  too,  has  learnt  something  certainl}''. 
Whereof  the  practice  will  bring  profit  soon ; 

And  peradventure  ofher  eyes  may  see. 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  what  is  done 

Or  undone.     Wiiatsoevcr  deeds  they  be. 
Pope  Pius  will  be  glorified  in  none. 

[83] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Eecord  that  gain,  Mazzini !     It  shall  top 
Some  heights  of  sorrow.     Peter^s  rock,  so  named. 

Shall  lure  no  vessel  any  more  to  drop 
Among  the  breakers.     Peter's  chair  is  shamed. 

Like  any  vulgar  throne  the  nations  lop 
To  pieces  for  their  firewood  unreclaimed ; 

And  when  it  burns,  too,  we  shall  see  as  well 
In  Italy  as  elsewhere.     Let  it  burn. 

The  cross  accounted  still  adorable 
Is  Christ's  cross  only  !     If  the  thief  s  would  earn 

Some  stealthy  genuflexions,  we  rebel ; 
And  here  the  impenitent  thief  s  has  had  its  turn. 

As  God  knows;  and  the  people  on  their  knees 
Scoff,  and  toss  back  the  crosiers  stretched  like  yokes 

To  press  their  heads  down  lower  by  degrees. 
So  Italy,  by  means  of  these  last  strokes. 

Escapes  the  danger  which  preceded  these. 
Of  leaving  captured  hands  in  cloven  oaks,  — 

Of  leaving  very  souls  within  the  buckle 
Whence  bodies  struggled  outward,  —  of  supposing 

That  free  men  may  like  bondsmen  kneel  and  truckle, 
And  then  stand  up  as  usual,  without  losing 

An  inch  of  stature. 

Those  whom  she- wolves  suckle 
Will  bite  as  wolves  do  in  the  grapple-closing 

Of  adverse  interests.     This  at  last  is  known 
(Thank  Pius  for  the  lesson),  that  albeit 

Among  the  Popedom's  hundred  heads  of  stone 
Which  blink  down  on  you  from  the  roofs  retreat 

[83] 


"  CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

In  Siena^s  tiger-striped  cathedral^  Joan 
And  Borgia  ^mid  their  fellows  you  may  greet, 

A  harlot  and  a  devil,  —  you  will  see 
Not  a  man,  still  less  angel,  grandly  set 

With  open  soul  to  render  man  more  free. 
The  fishers  are  still  thinking  of  the  net. 

And,  if  not  thinking  of  the  hook  too,  we 
Are  counted  somewhat  deeply  in  their  debt ; 

But  that 's  a  rare  case  —  so,  by  hook  and  crook. 
They  take  the  advantage,  agonizing  Christ 

By  rustier  nails  than  those  of  Cedron^s  brook, 
V  the  people's  body  very  cheaply  priced, — 

And  quote  high  priesthood  out  of  Holy  book. 
While  buying  death-fields  with  the  sacrificed. 

Priests,  priests,  —  there 's  no  such  name  !  —  God's  own, 
except 
Ye  take  most  vainly.     Through  heaven's  lifted  gate 

The  priestly  cphod  in  sole  glory  swept 
When  Christ  ascended,  entered  in,  and  sate 

(With  victor  face  sublimely  overwept) 
At  Deity's  right  hand  to  mediate. 

He  alono,  he  forever.     On  his  breast 
The  Urim  and  tlie  Thummim,  fed  with  fire 

From  the  full  Godlicad,  flicker  with  the  unrest 
Of  human  pitiful  heart  beats.     Come  up  higher. 

All  Christians.     Levi's  tribe  is  dispossest. 
That  solitary  alb  ye  shall  admire. 

But  not  cast  lots  for.     The  last  chrism,  poured  right, 

[84] 


nnHE  Dyinj;  Alexander,  in 
■*-  the  Utiizi  Gallery. 


'•  There  V  the  dyimf  Alexander.'''' 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  109. 


C  a  I  I'     ir  t 

<        t  »  L     »  «.  (t 

J    C      .  C  let  t 

c  e  f       < 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

"Was  on  that  Head,  and  poured  for  burial, 

And  not  for  domination  in  men^s  sight. 
What  are  these  churches  ?     The  old  temple  wall 

Doth  overlook  them  juggling  with  the  sleight 
Of  surplice,  candlestick,  and  altar-pall ; 

East  church  and  west  church,  ay,  north  church   and 
south, 
Eome^s  church  and  England^s  —  let  them  all  repent. 

And  make  concordats  ^twixt  their  soul  and  mouth. 
Succeed  St.  Paul  by  working  at  the  tent. 

Become  infallible  guides  by  speaking  truth. 
And  excommunicate  their  pride  that  bent 

And  cramped  the  souls  of  men. 

Why,  even  here. 
Priestcraft  burns  out,  the  twined  linen  blazes ; 

Not,  like  asbestos,  to  grow  white  and  clear. 
But  all  to  perish !  while  the  fire- smell  raises 

To  life  some  swooning  spirits,  who  last  year 
Lost  breath  and  heart  in  these  church-stifled  places. 

Why,  almost  through  this  Pius,  we  believed 
The  priesthood  could  be  an  honest  thing,  he  smiled 

So  saintly  while  our  corn  was  being  sheaved 
For  his  own  granaries  !     Showing  now  defiled 

His  hireling  hands,  a  better  help^s  achieved 
Than  if  they  blessed  us  shepherd-like  and  mild. 

False  doctrine,  strangled  by  its  own  amen. 
Dies  in  the  throat  of  all  this  nation.     Who 

Will  speak  a  pope^s  name  as  they  rise  again  ? 
What  woman  or  what  child  will  count  him  true  ? 

[85] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

What  dreamer  praise  him  with  the  voice  or  pen  ? 
What  man  fight  for  him  ?  —  Pius  takes  his  due. 


Record  that  gain,  Mazzini !  —  Yes_,  but  first 
Set  down  thy  people^s  faults ;  set  down  the  want 

Of  soul-conviction ;  set  down  aims  dispersed. 
And  incoherent  means,  and  valor  scant 

Because  of  scanty  faith,  and  schisms  accursed 
That  wrench  these  brother-hearts  from  covenant 

With  freedom  and  each  other.     Set  down  this, 
And  this,  and  see  to  overcome  it  when 

The  seasons  bring  the  fruits  thou  wilt  not  miss 
If  wary.     Let  no  cry  of  patriot  men 

Distract  thee  from  the  stern  analysis 
Of  masses  who  cry  only  !  keep  thy  ken 

Clear  as  thy  soul  is  virtuous.     Heroes^  blood 
Splashed  up  against  thy  noble  brow  in  Eome; 

Let  sucli  not  blind  thee  to  an  interlude 
Which  was  not  also  holy,  yet  did  come 

^Twixt  sacramental  actions,  —  brotherliood 
Despised  even  there,  and  something  of  the  doom 

Of  Remus  in  tlie  trenches.     Listen  now  — 
Rossi  died  silent  near  where  Cnesar  died. 

He  did  not  say,  "  My  l-Jrutus,  is  it  thou?^' 
But  Italy  unquestioned  testified, 

"  /  killed  him  !     /  am  Brutus.  —  I  avow." 
At  which  the  wliole  worhVs  laugh  of  scorn  replied, 

"  A  poor  maimed  copy  of  Ikutus  !  "    Too  much  like. 
Indeed,  to  be  so  unlike  !  too  unskilled 

[86] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

At  Philippi  and  the  honest  battle-pike, 
To  be  so  skilful  where  a  man  is  killed 

Near  Pompey^s  statue,  and  the  daggers  strike 
At  unawares  i'  the  throat.     Was  thus  fulfilled 

An  omen  once  of  Michel  Angelo  ?  — 
When  Marcus  Brutus  he  conceived  complete, 

And  strove  to  hurl  him  out  by  blow  on  blow 
Upon  the  marble,  at  Art^s  thunder-heat. 

Till  haply  (some  pre-shadow  rising  slow 
Of  what  his  Italy  would  fancy  meet 

To  be  called  Brutus)  straight  his  plastic  hand 
Fell  back  before  his  prophet-soul,  and  left 

A  fragment,  a  maimed  Brutus,  —  but  more  grand 
Than  this,  so  named  at  Eome,  was ! 

Let  thy  weft 

Present  one  woof  and  warp,  Mazzini !     Stand 
With  no  man  hankering  for  a  dagger^s  heft. 

No,  not  for  Italy  !  —  nor  stand  apart, 
No,  not  for  the  Eepublic  !  —  from  those  pure 

Brave  men  who  hold  the  level  of  thy  heart 
In  patriot  truth,  as  lover  and  as  doer. 

Albeit  they  will  not  follow  where  thou  art 
As  extreme  theorist.     Trust  and  distrust  fewer. 

And  so  bind  strong,  and  keep  unstained  the  cause 
Which  (God^s  sign  granted)  war-trumps  newly  blown 

Shall  yet  annunciate  to  the  world's  applause. 

But  now,  the  world  is  busy :  it  has  grown 

A  Pair-going  world.     Imperial  England  draws 
[87] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  flowing  ends  of  the  earth  from  Fez,  Canton, 

Delhi,  and  Stockholm,  Athens  and  Madrid, 
The  Bussias  and  the  vast  Americas, 

As  if  a  queen  drew  in  her  robes  amid 
Her  golden  cincture,  —  isles,  peninsulas. 

Capes,  continents,  far  inland  countries  hid 
By  jasper-sands  and  hills  of  chrysopras, 

All  trailing  in  their  splendors  through  the  door 
Of  the  gorgeous  Crystal  Palace.     Every  nation. 

To  every  other  nation  strange  of  yore. 
Gives  face  to  face  the  civic  salutation. 

And  holds  up  in  a  proud  right  hand  before 
That  congress  the  best  work  which  she  can  fashion 

By  her  best  means.     "  These  corals,  will  you  please 
To  match  against  your  oaks  ?     They  grow  as  fast 

Within  my  wilderness  of  purple  seas.^^  — 
"  This  diamond  stared  upon  me  as  I  passed 

(As  a  live  god's  eye  from  a  marble  frieze) 
Along  a  dark  of  diamonds.     Is  it  classed  ?  "  — 

"  I  wove  these  stufPs  so  subtly  that  the  gold 
Swims  to  the  surface  of  the  silk  like  cream 

And  curdles  to  fair  patterns.     Yc  bcliold  !  "  — 
"  These  delicatest  muslins  rather  seem 

Than  be,  you  think  ?     Nay,  touch  lliem  and  be  bold, 
Though  siK'li  veiled  Chakhi's  face  in  Hafiz'  dream."  — 

'^  1'liese  carpets  —  you  walk  slow  on  them  like  kings. 
Inaudible  like  spirits,  while  your  foot 

Dips  deep  in  velvet  roses  and  such  tilings."  — 
"  Even  Apollonius  might  commend  tliis  flute  : 

[88] 


I    I 


O       s" 


o      o 


^ 


o  ? 


2  ^ 


5"  5" 


CASA   GUIDI   WLNDOWS 

The  music,  winding  through  the  stops,  upsprings 
To  make  the  player  very  rich :  compute  !  ^' 

"  Here 's  goblet-glass,  to  take  in  with  your  wine 
The  very  sun  its  grapes  were  ripened  under : 

Drink  light  and  juice  together,  and  each  fine.'*  — 
"  This  model  of  a  steam-ship  moves  your  wonder  ? 

You  should  behold  it  crushing  down  the  brine 
Like  a  blind  Jove,  who  feels  his  way  with  thunder."  — 

"  Here 's  sculpture  !     Ah,  we  live  too  !  why  not  throw 
Our  life  into  our  marbles?     Art  has  place 

For  other  artists  after  Angelo."  — 
"  I  tried  to  paint  out  here  a  natural  face ; 

For  nature  includes  Eaffael,  as  we  know. 
Not  E/affael  nature.     Will  it  help  my  case  ?  "  — 

"  Methinks  you  will  not  match  this  steel  of  ours  !  "  — 
"  Nor  you  this  porcelain  !     One  might  dream  the  clay 

Eetained  in  it  the  larvse  of  the  flowers, 
They  bud  so  round  the  cup,  the  old  spring-way.'^  — 

"  Nor  you  these  carven  woods,  where  birds  in  bowers 
With  twisting  snakes  and  climbing  cupids  play." 

O  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west. 
Your  incense,  gold,  and  myrrh  are  excellent !  — 

What  gifts  for  Christ,  then,  bring  ye  with  the  rest  ? 
Your  hands  have  worked  well :  is  your  courage  spent 

In  handwork  only  ?     Have  you  nothing  best. 
Which  generous  souls  may  perfect  and  present. 

And  He  shall  thank  the  givers  for  ?  no  light 
Of  teaching,  liberal  nations,  for  the  poor 

[89] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

Who  sit  in  darkness  when  it  is  not  night  ? 
No  cure  for  wicked  children?     Christ  —  no  cure  ! 

No  help  for  women  sobbing  out  of  sight 
Because  men  made  the  laws  ?  no  brothel-lure 

Burnt  out  by  popular  lightnings  ?     Hast  thou  found 
No  remedy,  my  England,  for  such  woes  ? 

No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged  and  bound, 
No  entrance  for  the  exiled  ?  no  repose, 

Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked  underground. 
And  gentle  ladies  bleached  among  the  snows  ? 

No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America  ? 
No  hope  for  Eome,  free  Erance,  chivalric  France  ? 

Alas,  great  nations  have  great  shames,  I  say. 
No  pity,  0  world,  no  tender  utterance 

Of  benediction,  and  prayers  stretched  this  way 
For  poor  Italia,  baffled  by  mischance  ? 

O  gracious  nations,  give  some  ear  to  me ! 
You  all  go  to  your  Fair,  and  I  am  one 

Who  at  the  roadside  of  humanity 
Beseech  your  alms,  —  God's  justice  to  be  done. 

So,  prosper ! 

In  the  name  of  Italy, 
Meantime  her  patriot  dead  have  benison. 

They  oidy  have  done  well;  and,  what  they  did 
Being  perfect,  it  shall  triumph.      I  a!  Ihem  slumber: 

No  king  of  Egypt  in  a  pyramid 
Is  safer  from  oblivion,  though  he  iniiiiber 

Full  seventy  cerements  for  a  coverlid. 
These  dead  be  seeds  of  life,  and  shall  encumber 

[  90  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

The  sad  heart  of  the  land  until  it  loose 
The  clammy  clods,  and  let  out  the  spring-growth 

In  beatific  green  through  every  bruise. 
The  tyrant  should  take  heed  to  what  he  doth, 

Since  every  victim-carrion  turns  to  use. 
And  drives  a  chariot,  like  a  god  made  wroth, 

Against  each  piled  injustice.     Ay,  the  least, 
Dead  for  Italia,  not  in  vain  has  died ; 

Though  many  vainly,  ere  lifers  struggle  ceased, 
To  mad  dissimilar  ends  have  swerved  aside ; 

Each  grave  her  nationality  has  pieced 
By  its  own  majestic  breadth,  and  fortified, 

And  pinned  it  deeper  to  the  soil.     Forlorn 
Of  thanks  be,  therefore,  no  one  of  these  graves ! 

Not  hers,  —  ^w\\o,  at  her  husband's  side,  in  scorn. 
Outfaced  the  whistling  shot  and  hissing  waves. 

Until  she  felt  her  little  babe  unborn 
Eecoil,  within  her,  from  the  violent  staves 

And  bloodhounds  of  the  world  :  at  which  her  life 
Dropt  inwards  from  her  eyes,  and  followed  it 

Beyond  the  hunters.     Garibaldi's  wife 
And  child  died  so.     And  now  the  seaweeds  fit 

Her  body,  like  a  proper  shroud  and  coif. 
And  murmurously  the  ebbing  waters  grit 

The  little  pebbles  while  she  lies  interred 
In  the  sea-sand.     Perhaps,  ere  dying  thus. 

She  looked  up  in  his  face  (which  never  stirred 
From  its  clinched  anguish)  as  to  make  excuse 

For  leaving  him  for  his,  if  so  she  erred. 
[91  ] 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

He  well  remembers  that  she  could  not  choose. 

A  memorable  grave  !     Another  is 
At  Genoa.     There  a  king  may  fitly  lie, 

Who,  bursting  that  heroic  heart  of  his 
At  lost  No  vara,  that  he  could  not  die, 

(Though  thrice  into  the  cannon^s  eyes  for  this 
He  plunged  his  shuddering  steed,  and  felt  the  sky 

Reel  back  between  the  fire-shocks)  stripped  away 
The  ancestral  ermine  ere  the  smoke  had  cleared. 

And,  naked  to  the  soul,  that  none  might  say 
His  kingship  covered  what  was  base  and  bleared 

AVith  treason,  went  out  straight  an  exile,  yea. 
An  exiled  patriot.     Let  him  be  revered. 

Yea,  verily,  Charles  Albert  has  died  well; 
And  if  he  lived  not  all  so,  as  one  spoke, 

The  sin  pass  softly  with  the  passing-bell : 
For  he  was  shriven,  I  think,  in  cannon-smoke. 

And,  taking  off  his  crown,  made  visible 
A  hero's  forehead.     Shaking  Austria's  yoke. 

He  shattered  his  own  hand  and  heart.     "  So  best,' 
His  last  words  were  upon  his  lonely  bed, 

"  I  do  not  end  like  popes  and  dukes  at  least  — 
Thank  Cod  for  it."     And  now  that  he  is  dead, 

Admitting  it  is  proved  and  maiiifest 
That  he  was  worthy,  with  a  discrowned  head. 

To  measure  heights  witli  patriots,  let  them  stand 
Beside  the  man  in  his  Oporto  shroud. 

And  each  vouchsafe  to  take  him  by  the  hand, 
[92] 


QTATUE  of  Niccola  Pisauo, 
in  Portico  of  the  Uffizi. 


"  My  sculjttor  is  N'lcolo  the  Piin%/^       '    ' 

—  Old  Picc'irea  in  FTr-^rce,  p.  113. 


I     (      e     f  r  e     r 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

And  kiss  him  on  the  cheeky  and  say  aloud, 

"  Thou,  too,  hast  suffered  for  our  native  land  ! 
My  brother,  thou  art  one  of  us  !  be  proud.'"' 

Still,  graves,  when  Italy  is  talked  upon. 
Still,  still,  the  patriot's  tomb,  the  stranger's  hate. 

Still  Niobe  !  still  fainting  in  the  sun. 
By  whose  most  dazzling  arrows  violate 

Her  beauteous  offspring  perished  1  has  she  won 
Nothing  but  garlands  for  the  graves,  from  Fate  ? 

Nothing  but  death-songs  ?     Yes,  be  it  understood 
Life  throbs  in  noble  Piedmont !  while  the  feet 

Of  Eome's  clay  image,  dabbled  soft  in  blood. 
Grow  flat  with  dissolution,  and,  as  meet. 

Will  soon  be  shovelled  off  like  other  mud. 
To  leave  the  passage  free  in  church  and  street. 

And  I,  who  first  took  hope  up  in  this  song. 
Because  a  child  was  singing  one  .  .  .  behold. 

The  hope  and  omen  were  not,  haply,  wrong ! 
Poets  are  soothsavers  still,  like  those  of  old 

Who  studied  flights  of  doves ;  and  creatures  young 
And  tender,  mighty  meanings  may  unfold. 

The  sun  strikes  through  the  windows,  up  the  floor ; 
Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Florentine, 

Not  two  years  old,  and  let  me  see  thee  more ! 
It  grows  along  thy  amber  curls,  to  shine 

Brighter  than  elsewhere.    Now,  look  straight  before, 
And  fix  thy  brave  blue  English  eyes  on  mine, 

[93] 


CASA  GUIDI  WINDOWS 

And  from  my  soul,  which  fronts  the  future  so, 
With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze. 

Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  angels  know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost.    Down  God^s  ways 

With  just  alighted  feet,  between  the  snow 
And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb  may  graze, 

Thou  hast  no  fear,  my  lamb,  about  the  road. 
Albeit  in  our  vain-glory  we  assume 

That,  less  than  we  have,  thou  hast  learnt  of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet !  —  thou  to  whom 

The  earliest  world-day  light  that  ever  flowed. 
Through  Casa  Guidi  windows  chanced  to  come ! 

Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of  thy  hair. 
And  be  God's  witness  that  the  elemental 

New  springs  of  life  are  gushing  everywhere 
To  cleanse  the  water-courses,  and  prevent  all 

Concrete  obstructions  which  infest  the  air ! 
That  earth 's  alive,  and  gentle  or  ungentle 

Motions  within  her  signify  but  growth  !  — 
The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the  laboring  moles. 

Howe'er  the  uneasy  world  is  vexed  and  wroth, 
Young  children,  lifted  liigh  on  parent  souls. 

Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon  the  mouth, 
And  take  for  music  every  bell  that  tolls ; 

(Who  said  we  should  be  better  if  like  these  ?) 
But  we  sit  murmuring  for  the  future,  though 

Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees. 
Convicting  us  of  folly.     Let  us  go  — 

[94  ] 


T/'ASAllI'S  portrait  of  Ghiberti,  in 
Hall  of  Cosimo  T.,  in  Palazzo 
Veccliio. 


"  jS^or  ei'er  teas  man  of  them  all  indeed^ 
From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. " 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  113 


CASA   GUIDI   WINDOWS 

We  will  trust  God.     The  blank  interstices 
Men  take  for  ruins,  He  will  build  into 

With  pillared  marbles  rare,  or  knit  across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane  's  complete. 
This  world  has  no  perdition,  if  some  loss. 

Such  cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smiling,  sweet  ! 

The  self-same  cherub-faces  which  emboss 
The  Yeil,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy-seat. 


[95] 


THE  DANCE 


THE  DANCE 


YOU  remember  down  at  Florence  our  Cascine 
Where  the  people  on  the  feast-days  walk  and  drive, 
And  through  the  trees,  long-drawn  in  many  a  green  way, 
O'er-roofing  hum  and  murmur  like  a  hive, 
The  river  and  the  mountains  look  alive  ? 

n 

You  remember  the  piazzone  there,  the  stand-place 
Of  carriages  a-brim  with  Florence  beauties. 

Who  lean  and  melt  to  music  as  the  band  plays. 
Or  smile  and  chat  with  some  one  who  afoot  is, 
Or  on  horseback,  in  observance  of  male  duties  ? 

ni 

'T  is  so  pretty,  in  the  afternoons  of  summer. 
So  many  gracious  faces  brought  together ! 

Call  it  rout,  or  call  it  concert,  they  have  come  here, 
In  the  floating  of  the  fan  and  of  the  feather, 
To  reciprocate  with  beauty  the  fine  weather. 

[99] 


THE   DANCE 

IV 

While  the  flower-girls  ofi'er  nosegays  (because  they  too 
Go  with  other  sweets)  at  every  carriage-door ; 

Here,  by  shake  of  a  white  finger,  signed  away  to 
Some  next  buyer,  who  sits  buying  score  on  score, 
PiKng  roses  upon  roses  evermore. 

V 

And  last  season,  when  the  French  camp  had  its  station 
In  the  meadow-ground,  things  quickened  and  grew  gayer 

Through  the  mingling  of  the  liberating  nation 

With  this  people  ;  groups  of  Frenchmen  everywhere. 
Strolling,  gazing,  judging  lightly  —  "  who  was  fair/^ 

VI 

Then  the  noblest  lady  present  took  upon  her 
To  speak  nobly  from  her  carriage  for  the  rest : 

"  Pray  these  officers  from  France  to  do  us  honor 
By  dancing  with  us  straightway/'     The  request 
Was  gravely  apprehended  as  addrest. 

VII 

And  the  men  of  France,  bareheaded,  bowing  lowly, 
Led  out  each  a  proud  signora  to  the  space 

Which  the  startled  crowd  had  rounded  for  them  —  slowly, 
Just  a  touch  of  still  emotion  in  his  face. 
Not  presuming,  through  the  symbol,  on  the  grace. 

[100] 


PORTRAIT  of  Ghirlandajo 
(Domcnico  Bigordi),  from  his 
fresco  of  Joachim's  Expulsion 
from  the  Temple,  iu  Santa 
Maria  Novella. 


"  Xot  that  I  expect  the  great  BUfordi 
.   ...   to  hear  m^;." 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  1 14 


THE   DANCE 


VIII 


There  was  silence  in  the  people :  some  lips  trembled, 
But  none  jested.     Broke  the  music  at  a  glance ; 

And  the  daughters  of  our  princes,  thus  assembled, 
Stepped  the  measure  with  the  gallant  sons  of  France, 
Hush  !  it  might  have  been  a  Mass,  and  not  a  dance. 

IX 

And  they  danced  there  till  the  blue  that  overskied  us 
Swooned  with  passion,  though  the  footing  seemed  sedate ; 

And  the  mountains,  heaving  mighty  hearts  beside  us. 
Sighed  a  rapture  in  a  shadow,  to  dilate, 
And  touch  the  holy  stone  where  Dante  sate. 

X 

Then  the  sons  of  France,  bareheaded,  lowly  bowing. 
Led  the  ladies  back  where  kinsmen  of  the  south 

Stood,  received  them ;  till,  with  burst  of  overflowing 
Feeling,  husbands,  brothers,  Florence's  male  youth. 
Turned  and  kissed  the  martial  strangers  mouth  to  mouth. 

XI 

And  a  cry  went  up,  —  a  cry  from  all  that  people ! 
—  You  have  heard  a  people  cheering,  you  suppose. 

For  the  member,  mayor  .  .  .  with  chorus  from  the  steeple  ? 
This  was  different,  scarce  as  loud  perhaps  (who  knows  ?), 
For  we  saw  wet  eyes  around  us  ere  the  close. 

[101  ] 


THE   DANCE 


XII 


Amd  we  felt  as  if  a  nation,  too  long  borne  in 

By  hard  wrongers,  —  comprehending  in  such  attitude 

That  God  had  spoken  somewhere  since  the  morning, 
That  men  were  somehow  brothers,  by  no  platitude, 
Cried  exultant  in  great  wonder  and  free  gratitude. 


[  102] 


PORTRAIT  of  Alessandro  Botticelli, 
ill  his  ])ictiire  of  The  Adoration  of 
the  Maiii.     Uffizi  Gallery. 


Sandra  ....   cliii'alrir,  hellicose/" 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  114 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 


THE  morn  when  first  it  thunders  in  March, 
The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap,  they  say 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed  arch 

Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March  day, 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder  rolled 

In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white  and  wide 
And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain-side. 


II 

Eiver  and  bridge  and  street  and  square 

Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and  call^ 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of  air. 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal  ball. 
And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to  see 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto  raised: 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle  me? 
[  105  ] 


OLD   PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

III 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  jours, 

Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved  you  so  ? 
Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  endures 

Yet  it  feels,  I  would  have  your  fellows  know  ! 
I^  faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should  care 

To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them  best. 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard  to  bear 

When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

IV 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 

Print  the  blue  sky  witli  twig  and  leaf, 
(That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they  never  shed) 

^Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  lean  in  chief. 
And  mark  through  the  winter  afternoons. 

By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and  then. 
In  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like  moons. 

Who  walked  in  Plorence,  besides  her  men. 

V 

They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come  and  go 

For  pleasure  or  profit,  her  men  alive  — 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I  trow. 

But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human  hive; 
—  With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister-porch, 

The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave. 
Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a  torch. 

Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 

[  106] 


PORTRAIT  of  Filippfno  Lippi, 
in  Uffizi  Gallery.  Painted  by 
himself. 


llie  icromjed  Lippiiio. "  -     •    .    . 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  114 


OLD   PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

YI 

Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 

Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and  wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in  the  painting  stops. 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse-tick  pains : 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch  the  brick. 

Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the  plaster, 
—  A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass''s  kick, 

The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  ancient  Master. 

TEI 

For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it  does  ! 

They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their  backs  to  it. 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  vou  hum  and  buzz 

Eound  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little  wit ! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth's  old  scope, 

Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face. 
And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I  hope  ? 

'T  is  their  holiday  now,  in  any  case. 

YIII 

Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and  you  ! 

But  the  wronged  great  souls  —  can  they  be  quit 
Of  a  world  where  their  work  is  all  to  do. 

Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the  little  wit. 
Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 

Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  New  are  fellows : 
[  107] 


OLD   PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

A  younger  succeeds  to  an  elder  brother. 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from  Dellos.^ 


IX 

And  here  where  your  praise  might  yield  returns. 

And  a  handsome  word  or  two  give  help. 
Here,  after  your  kind,  the  mastiff  girns 

And  the  puppy  pack  of  poodles  yelp. 
What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  ^  there. 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry. 
Called  Nature's  Ape  and  the  world's  despair 

For  his  peerless  painting  ?  (see  Yasari.) 


There  stands  the  Master.     Study,  my  friends. 

What  a  man*s  work  comes  to  !     So  he  plans  it. 
Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 

For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and  then,  sic  transit ! 
Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labor. 

With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand  is  busy. 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of  their  neighbor ! 

^Tis  looking  downward  that  makes  one  dizzy. 


^  Dello  Delli,  whose  reputation  was  founded  on  his  skill  in  painting 
small  figures  on  "  cassoni  "  for  wedding  ganneuts  and  the  like.  No  existing 
work  can  be  attributed  to  him  with  certainty. 

2  Although  extravagantly  praised  by  Vasari,  no  authenticated  picture  by 
Stefano  (1301-1350)  exists  in  Florence. 

[108  ] 


nORONATIOX  of  the  Virgin, 
by  Lorenzo  Monaco.  In  Utfizi 
Galk'i-v. 


"  Xot  a  churli.sh  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  .'  " 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  11-4 

"  Brother  Lorenzo  stanch  his  shii/h  i>eer/' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  1-9 


,  OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

XI 

''  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would  deal  your  dole/' 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct  you  ? 
When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the  goal^ 

Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast  infructn  — 
The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first  spoken. 

Which  the  actual  generations  garble. 
Was  re-uttered,  and  Soul  (which  Limbs  betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul  informs)  made  new  in  marble. 

XII 

So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished  you  were. 

As  you  might  have  been,  as  you  cannot  be ; 
Earth  here,  rebuked  by  Olympus  there ; 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  degree 
With  your  little  power,  by  those  statues*  godhead. 

And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes'  full  sway, 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace  embodied. 

And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms  that  stay. 

XIII 

You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say,  than  I  am  ? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  Theseus. 
You  would  prove  a  model  ?     The  Son  of  Priam 

Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  and  knees'  use. 
You're  wroth  — can  you  slay  your  snake  like  Apollo  ? 

You  're  grieved  —  still  Niobe  's  the  grander  ! 
You  live  —  there  's  the  Racers'  frieze  to  follow  : 

You  die  —  there  's  the  dying  Alexander. 
[  109  1 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

XIV 

So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their  strength, 

Your  meagre  charms  by  their  rounded  beauty, 
Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and  length, 

You  learned  —  to  submit  is  a  mortal's  duty. 
—  When  I  say  "  you '''  't  is  the  common  soul. 

The  collective,  I  mean  :  the  race  of  Man 
That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a  whole, 

And  grow  here  according  to  God's  clear  plan. 

XV 

Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last  on  them  all. 

You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one  fine  day 
And  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we  so  small 

Be  greater  and  grander  the  while  than  they  ! 
Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  perfect  of  stature  ? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 
Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature ; 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity. 

XVI 

To-day's  brief  passion  limits  their  range  ; 

It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us  and  more. 
They  are  perfect  —  how  else  ?  they  shall  never  change  •. 

We  are  faulty  —  why  not  ?  we  have  time  in  store. 
The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 

With  us ;  we  are  rough-hewn,  no-wise  polished : 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once  invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall  see  them  abolished. 
[110] 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

XVII 
^T  is  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be  leaven  — 

The  better  !     What  ■'s  come  to  perfection  perishes. 
Things  learned  on  earth,  we  shall  practise  in  heaven : 

Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most  cherishes. 
Thyself  shalt  afford  the  example,  Giotto  ! 

Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or  diminish. 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it  not  ?)  "  0  ! " 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  still  to  finish. 

XVIII 
Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall  be  hereafter. 

But  what  and  where  depend  on  lifers  minute  ? 
Hails  heavenly  cheer  or  infernal  laughter 

Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in  it  ? 
Shall  Man,  such  step  within  his  endeavor, 

Man's  face,  have  no  more  play  and  action 
Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 

Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ? 

XIX 

On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early  painters. 

To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what  more  wish  you  ? 
Replied,  "To  become  now  self-acquainters. 

And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the  issue  ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  through  the  flesh  they  fray. 

New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and  tatters  : 
To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play  ! 

Let  the  visible  go  to  the  dogs  —  what  matters  ?  '" 

[111  ] 


OLD  PICTURES   IN  FLORENCE 

XX 

Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guerdon  and  glory 

For  daring  so  much,  before  the}'  well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  racers  story. 

Beats  the  last  of  the  old ;  't  is  no  idle  quiddit. 
The  worthies  began  a  revolution. 

Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to  acknowledge. 
Why,  honor  them  now  !   (ends  my  allocution) 

Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the  folks  leave  college. 

XXI 

There  's  a  fancy  some  lean  to  and  others  hate  — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New  work  for  the  soul  in  another  state. 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary,  loses  and  wins : 
Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this  world^s  congeries, 

Eepeat  in  large  what  they  practised  in  small. 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited  series ; 

Only  the  scale 's  to  be  changed,  that 's  all. 

XXII 
Yet  I  hardly  know.     When  a  soul  has  seen 

By  the  means  of  Evil  that  Good  is  best. 
And,   through    earth    and    its    noise,    what   is   heaven's 
serene,  — 

When  our  faith  in  the  same  has  stood  the  test  — 
Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn  the  rod. 

The  uses  of  labor  are  surely  done ; 
There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people  of  God : 

And  I  have  had  troubles  enough,  for  one. 

[  112] 


A  LESSIO   BALDOVINETTI'S 

Madoima  aud  Saints,  in   Uffizi 
Gallery. 


'■''  the  someiohat  pettif,"'     ,'  '.    • 

Of  f  hired  touch  and  tempera  criipihly ^-^^ 
.   .   .   .   Alesao  lUddorineft't.^^ 

—  Old  Pictures  in  Florence,  p.  114 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

XXIII 

But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  season 

Of  Art^s  spring-birth  so  dim  and  dewy ; 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo,  the  Pisan, 

My  painter — who  but  Cimabue? 
Nor  ever  was  man  of  them  all  indeed, 

Prom  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghirlandajo, 
Could  say  that  he  missed  my  critic-meed. 

So,  now  to  my  special  grievance  —  heigh  ho  ! 

XXIV 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I  said  before. 

Watching  each  fresco  flaked  and  rasped, 
Blocked  up,  knocked  out,  or  whitewashed  o^er : 

—  No  getting  again  what  the  church  has  grasped ! 
The  works  on  the  wall  must  take  their  chance ; 

^^  Works  never  conceded  to  England's  thick  clime  !  '^ 
(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 

Of  a  bucketful  of  Italian  quick-lime.) 

XXV 

When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a  shaking 

Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each  master  his  way  through  the  black  streets  taking. 

Where  many  a  lost  work  breathes  though  badly  — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who  has  merited  ? 

Why  not  reveal,  while  their  pictures  dree 
Such  doom,  how  a  captive  might  be  out-ferreted  ? 

Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me  ? 
8  [  113  ] 


OLD   PICTURES   IN  FLORENCE 

XXVI 

Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi, 

Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric,  bellicose ; 
Nor  the  wronged  Lippino ;  and  not  a  word  I 

Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico^s  : 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco, 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven  with  a  sad  eye  ? 

Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Monaco  ? 

XXVII 1 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red  cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the  twice  a  craftsman. 
Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 

Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows  the  draughtsman? 
No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat  petty. 

Of  finical  touch  and  tempera  crumbly  - — 
Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 

Contribute  so  much,  I  ask  him  humbly  ? 

xxvni 

Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 

With  the  grave-clothes  garb  and  swaddling  barret 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a  pet  so. 

You  bald  old  saturnine  poll-clawed  parrot?) 

1  The  pictures  alluded  to  in  this  and  the  following  stanza  are  said  to  have 
been  Browning's  own  property. 

[  114] 


O 

w 

>"  t= 

c 

±  <=: 

—  •  f~ 

►^ 

?r  c 

(r\ 

a 

:r. 

c  — • 

w 

C     ?: 

hr-    '^ 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE 

Not  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion,, 

Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the  donor  ? 

If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction, 

The  hoarding  it  does  you  but  little  honor. 

XXIX 

They  pass ;  for  them  the  panels  may  thrill, 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tinglish ; 
Their  pictures  are  left  to  the  mercies  still 

Of  dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and  the  English, 
Who,  seeing  mere  money's  worth  in  their  prize. 

Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as  Zeno 
At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstasies 

Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  !  ^ 

XXX 

No  matter  for  these !     But  Giotto,  you, 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the  town-tongues  babble  it,  — 
Oh,  never  !  it  shall  not  be  counted  true  — - 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet  '■^ 
Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a  lover,  — 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion's  womb 
And,  left  for  another  than  I  to  discover. 

Turns  up  at  last !  and  to  whom  ?  —  to  whom  ? 

1  Carlo  Dolci,  a  painter  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  art  had  begun 
to  decline. 

^  A  famous  "  Last  Supper  "  mentioned  by  Vasari,  which  went  astray  from 
San  Spirito  and  was  afterwards  found  in  some  obscure  corner,  and  purchased 
by  a  stranger. 

[115] 


OLD   PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

XXXI 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim  Sau  Spirito, 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Oguissaiiti  ?) 
Patient  on  altar-step  planting  a  weary  toe  ! 

Nay,  I  shall  have  it  yet !     Betur  amcmtil 
My  Koh-i-noor  —  or  (if  that's  a  platitude) 

Jewel  of  Giamschid,  the  Persian  Soft's  eye ; 
So,  in  anticipative  gratitude. 

What  if  I  take  up  my  hope  and  prophesy  ? 

XXXII 

When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a  certain  dotard 

Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  invoicing, 
To  the  worse  side  of  the  Mont  St.  Gothard, 

We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing ; 
None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank  cartridge). 

Nor  a  civic  guard,  all  plumes  and  lacquer. 
Hunting  Kadetzky^s  soul  like  a  partridge 

Over  Morello  with  squib  and  cracker. 

XXXIII 

This  time  we  ^11  shoot  better  game  and  bag  'em  hot  — 

No  mere  display  at  the  stone  of  Dante, 
But  a  kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 

(Ex:  "Casa  Guidi,^^  quod  vicleas  ante) 
Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored  to  Plorence, 

How  Art  may  return  that  departed  with  her. 
Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the  Loraine^s, 

And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna  hither ! 
[  116] 


o 


o 


^  o 

p-  I— I 


OLD   PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE 

XXXIV 

How  we  shall  prologize,  how  we  shall  perorate, 

Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 
Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood  at  zero  rate 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no  mystery; 
Contrast  the  fructuous  and  sterile  eras, 

Show  —  monarchy  ever  its  uncouth  cub  licks 
Out  of  the  bear's  shape  into  Chimsera's, 

While  Pure  Art's  birth  is  still  the  republic's. 

XXXV 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a  speech  (curt  Tuscan, 

Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely  an  "  issmo^ 
To  end  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cambuscan, 

And  turn  the  bell-towers'  alt  to  altissimo : 
And  fine  as  the  beak  of  a  young  beccaccia 

The  Campanile,  the  Duomo's  fit  ally. 
Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia. 

Completing  Florence,  as  Florence,  Italy. 

XXXVI 

Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaffold 

Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent  fire. 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world,  unbaffled 

Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes  the  spire 
While  "  God  and  the  People  "  plain  for  its  motto. 

Thence  the  new  tricolor  flaps  at  the  sky  ? 
At  least  to  foresee  that  glory  of  Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am  I ! 
[  117] 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI 

1855 

I   AM  poor  brother  Lippo,  by  your  leave  ! 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my  face. 
Zooks,  what  ^s  to  blame  ?  you  think  you  see  a  monk  ! 
What,  't  is  past  midnight,  and  you  go  the  rounds. 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's  end 
Where  sportive  ladies  leave  their  doors  ajar  ? 
The  Carmine  's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it  up. 
Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must  show  your  zeal, 
Whatever  rat,  there,  haps  on  his  wrong  hole, 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white  mouse, 
Weke,  WeJcey   that 's  crept  to  keep  him  company  ! 
Aha,  you  know  your  betters  ?     Then  you  ''11  take 
Your  hand  away  that 's  fiddling  on  my  throat. 
And  please  to  know  me  likewise.     Who  am  I  ? 
Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a  friend 
Three  streets  off  —  he 's  a  certain  .  .  .  how  d'  ye  call  ? 
Master — a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 
r  the  house  that  caps  the  corner.     Boh  !  you  were  best 
Eemember  and  tell  me,  the  day  you  're  hanged. 
How  you  affected  such  a  guUet's-gripe ! 
But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your  knaves 
Pick  up  a  manner  nor  discredit  you  : 

[  121  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

Zooks,  are  we  pilchards^  that  they  sweep  the  streets 
And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into  their  net  ? 
He  's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 
Just  such  a  face !     Why,  sir,  you  make  amends. 
Lord,  I  'm  not  angry  !  Bid  your  hangdogs  go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the  health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors  me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more  beside !) 
And  all 's  come  square  again.     I  'd  like  his  face  — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the  door 
With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the  slave  that  holds 
John  Baptist^s  head  a-dangle  by  the  hair 
With  one  hand  ("  Look  you,  now,^^  as  who  should  say) 
And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  unwiped  ! 
It 's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of  chalk, 
A  wood-coal  or  the  like  ?  or  you  should  see ! 
Yes,  I  'm  the  painter,  since  you  style  me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and  down, 
You  know  them  and  they  take  you  ?   like  enough  ! 
I  saw  the  proper  twinkle  in  your  eye  — 
^Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very  first. 
Let 's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now,  hip  to  haunch. 
Here  's  spring  come,  and  the  nights  one  makes  up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  carnival, 
And  1  \e  been  three  weeks  shut  within  my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints  and  saints 
And  saints  again.     I  could  not  paint  all  night  — 
Ouf !  I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh  air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little  feet, 

[  122  ] 


>OUTllArr  of  Cosimo  de'  Medici 
(called  Pater  Patria;),  by  Pon- 
toriuo.      In  Uffizi  Gallery. 


**  \\  Jio  (li/i  J  : 
^yjit/,  one,,  sir,  irJio  is  lodyituf  irith  n  friend 
Three  streets  off  .   .   .   .   Cosimo  of  the  Medici."' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  121 


.•  •      • 


FRA  LIPPO   LIPPI 

A  sweep  of  lute-strings^  laughs,  and  whifts  of  song,  — 

Flower  d'  the  broorrij 

Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb  ! 

Flower  o'  the  quince^ 

I  let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life  since  ? 

Flower  o*  the  thyme  —  and  so  on.     Eound  they  went. 

Scarce  had  they  turned  the  corner  when  a  titter 

Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moonlight,  —  three  slim 

shapes. 
And  a  face  that   looked  up  .  .  .  zooks,   sir,   flesh   and 

blood. 
That 's  all  I  'm  made  of !     Into  shreds  it  went. 
Curtain  and  counterpane  and  coverlet. 
All  the  bed- furniture  —  a  dozen  knots. 
There  was  a  ladder !     Down  I  let  myself. 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow,  and  so  dropped. 
And  after  them.     I  came  up  with  the  fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Laurence,  hail  fellow,  well  met,  — 
Floioer  o'  the  rose. 

If  Fve  been  merry,  what  matter  who  knows  ? 
And  so  as  I  was  stealing  back  again 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old  breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh. 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.     Ah,  I  see  ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you  shake  your  head  — 
Mine 's  shaved  —  a  monk,  you  say  —  the  sting 's  in  that ! 
If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 

[  123  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

Mum  ^s  the  word  naturally  ;  but  a  monk  ! 

Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us,  now  ! 

I  Avas  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 

And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the  street. 

I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a  year  or  two 

On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and  shucks. 

Refuse  and  rubbish.     One  fine  frosty  day, 

My  stomach  being  empty  as  your  hat. 

The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I  went. 

Old  Aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with  one  hand, 

(Its  fellow  was  a  stinger  as  I  knew) 

And  so  along  the  wall,  over  the  bridge. 

By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent.     Six  words  there. 

While  I  stood  munching  my  first  bread  that  month : 

"  So,  boy,  you  're  minded,'^  quoth  the  good  fat  father, 

Wiping  his  own  mouth,  't  was  refection-time,  — 

"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 

Will  you  renounce '^  .  .  .  "  the  mouthful  of  bread  ? '^ 

thought  I ; 
By  no  means  !     Brief,  they  made  a  monk  of  me ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride  and  greed. 
Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking-house. 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of  Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at  eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may  be  sure, 
'T  was  not  for  nothing  —  the  good  bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that  goes  all  round. 
And  day-long  blessed  idleness  beside ! 
'^  Let 's  see  what  the  urchin  's  fit  for  "  —  that  came  next. 

[  124  ] 


QT.  JEROME,  by  Era  Lippo 
Lippi.      In  Academy. 


"  /  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  to  work 
On  Jerome  knorkhtf/  at  his  poor  olcVhr^xist 
With  his  (/re<it  round  stone  to  subdue  the  flesh."' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  123 


FRA   LIPPO    LIPPI 

Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  confess. 
Such  a  to-do  !     They  tried  me  with  their  books  : 
Lord,  they  'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in  pure  waste  ! 
Flower  6*  the  clove, 

All  the  Latin  I  construe  is,  "  amo  '^  I  love  ! 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves  in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune  was. 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who  will  fling 
The  bit  of  half- stripped  grape- bunch  he  desires. 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for  his  pains,  — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and  fine. 
Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and  catch 
The  droppings  of  the  wax  to  sell  again. 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him  whipped,  — 
How  say  I  ?  — ■  nay,  which  dog  bites,  which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the  street,  — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow  sharp  alike. 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none  the  less 
For  admonition  from  the  hunger-pinch. 
I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be  sure. 
Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned  to  use : 
I  drew  men^s  faces  on  my  copy-books. 
Scrawled  them  within  the  antiphonary^s  marge. 
Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long  music-notes. 
Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A.s  and  B.s, 
And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the  world 
Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and  noun. 
On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door.    The  monks  looked  black. 

[  125  ] 


FRA  LIPPO   LIPPI 

"  Nay/"*  quoth  the  Prior,,  "  turn  him  out^  d'  ye  say  ? 
In  uo  wise.     Lose  a  crow  and  catch  a  lark. 
What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of  parts, 
We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldolese 
And  Preaching  Priars,  to  do  our  church  up  fine 
And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  be  !  '^ 
And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 
Thank  you  !  my  head  being  crammed,  the  walls  a  blank, 
Never  was  such  prompt  disemburdening. 
First,  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black  and  white, 
I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean :  then,  folk  at  church, 
Prom  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  confess 
Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  candle-ends,  — 
To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar-foot, 
Presh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sitting  there 
With  the  little  children  round  him  in  a  row 
Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard  and  half 
Por  that  white  anger  of  his  victim^s  son 
Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce  arm, 
Signing  himself  with  the  other  because  of  Christ 
(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only  this 
After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years) 
Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her  head, 
(Which  the  intense  eyes  looked  through)  came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a  loaf, 
Her  pair  of  ear-rings  and  a  bunch  of  flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and  so  was  gone, 
I  painted  all,  then  cried  '^'Tis  ask  and  have; 
Choose^  for  more 's  ready  ! ''  —  laid  the  ladder  flat, 

[  126  ] 


TTNFINISHED  facade  of  the 
Church  of  the  Carmine ; 
iSth  to  15th  century. 


"  What  if  at  last  we  get  oiir  nMit'of  pgri's 

.  ...   to  do  our  church  up  fne 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to  he."'' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  12G 


FRA  LIPPO   LIPPI 


bowed  my  covered  bit  of  cloister- wall, 
onks  closed  in  a  circle  and  praised  loud 
eckedj  taught  what  to  see  and  not  to  see^ 
simple  bodies,,  —  "  That 's  the  very  man ! 
it  the  boy  who  stoops  to  pat  the  dog ! 
^oman  ^s  like  the  Prior's  niece  who  comes 
e  about  his  asthma  :  it 's  the  life  !  '^ 
ere  my  triumph's  straw-fire  flared  and  funked; 
Detters  took  their  turn  to  see  and  say : 
ior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
opped  all  that  in  no  time.     "  How?  what's  here? 
from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! 
arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the  true 
ch  as  pea  and  pea  !  it 's  devil's  game  ! 
Dusiness  is  not  to  catch  men  with  show, 
lomage  to  the  perishable  clay, 
t  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
them  forget  there 's  such  a  thing  as  flesh. 
)usiness  is  to  paint  the  souls  of  men  — 
soul,  and  it 's  a  fire,  smoke  .^  no,  it 's  not. 
ipor  done  up  like  a  new-born  babe  — 
it  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves  your  mouth) 
.  well,  what  matters  talking,  it 's  the  soul ! 
s  no  more  of  body  than  shows  soul ! 
5  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-praising  God, 
ets  us  praising,  —  why  not  stop  with  him  ? 
)ut  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of  our  head 
ivonder  at  lines,  colors,  and  what  not  ? 
bhe  soul,  never  mind  the  legs  and  arms  ! 
[  127  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

Eub  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time. 
Oh,  that  white  smallish  female  with  the  breasts, 
She  's  just  my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,  I  would  say,  — 
Who  went  and  danced  and  got  men^s  heads  cut  off ! 
Have  it  all  out ! ''''     Now,  is  tliis  sense,  I  ask  ? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting  body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can^t  stop  there,  must  go  further 
And'can't  fare  worse !     Thus,  yellow  does  for  white 
When  what  you  put  for  yellow  's  simply  black. 
And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  intense 
When  all  beside  itself  means  and  looks  naught. 
Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in  turn. 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double  step, 
Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more  like. 
Both  in  their  order  ?     Take  the  prettiest  face. 
The  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron-saint  —  is  it  so  pretty 
You  can^t  discover  if  it  means  hope,  fear, 
Sorrow  or  joy  ?  won't  beauty  go  with  these  ? 
Suppose  I  Ve  made  her  eyes  all  right  and  blue. 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add  life's  flash, 
And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them  threefold  ? 
Or  say  there  's  beauty  with  no  soul  at  all  — 
(I  never  saw  it  —  put  the  case  the  same  — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught  else. 
You  get  about  the  best  thing  God  invents : 
That 's  somewhat :  and  you  '11  find  the  soul  you  have  missed. 
Within  yourself,  when  you  return  him  thanks. 
"  Rub  all  out !  "     Well,  well,  there 's  my  life,  in  short. 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever  since. 

f  128  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

I  ^m  grown  a  man  no  doiibt_,  I  Ve  broken  bounds  : 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight  years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the  girls. 
I  ^m  my  own  master,,  paint  now  as  I  please  — 
Having  a  friend,  you  see,  in  the  Comer-house ! 
Lord,  it  ^s  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in  front  — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes  than  just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the  old  grave  eyes 
Are  peeping  o^er  my  shoulder  as  I  work. 
The  heads  shake  still  —  '^  It 's  art's  decline,  my  son  ! 
You  ''re  not  of  the  true  painters,  great  and  old ; 
Brother  Angelico  's  the  man,  you  ''11  find ; 
Brother  Lorenzo  stands  his  single  peer : 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you  '11  never  make  the  third  !  ^^ 
Flower  d*  the  pine, 

Yoio  keep  1/ our  mistr  .  .  .  manners ^  and  I ' II  stick  to  mine  ! 
I'm  not  the  third,  then  :  bless  us,  they  must  know  ! 
Don't  you  think  they  're  the  likeliest  to  know. 
They  with  their  Latin  ?     So,  I  swallow  my  rage. 
Clench  my  teeth,  suck  my  lips  in  tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them  —  sometimes  do,  and  sometimes  don% 
For,  doing  most,  there 's  pretty  sure  to  come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at  my  saints  — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the  world  — 
{Flower  6'  the  peach, 

Death  for  its  all,  and  his  own  life  for  each  /) 
And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup  runs  over. 
The  world  and  life 's  too  big  to  pass  for  a  dream, 
9  [  129  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer  despite, 

And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me  at. 

In  pare  rage  !     The  old  mill-horse,  out  at  grass 

After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff  heels  so, 

Although  the  miller  does  not  preach  to  him 

The  only  good  of  grass  is  to  make  chaff. 

What  would  men  have  ?     Do  they  hke  grass  or  no  - 

May  they  or  may  n^t  they  ?  all  I  want  ^s  the  thing 

Settled  for  ever  one  way.     As  it  is. 

You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  yourself : 

You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too  much. 

You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at  your  word. 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 

Por  me,  I  think  I  speak  as  I  was  taught ; 

I  always  see  the  garden  and  God  there 

A-making  man^s  wife  :  and,  my  lesson  learned. 

The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 

I  can't  unlearn  ten  minutes  afterwards. 

You  understand  me  :  I  ''m  a  beast,  I  know. 
But  see,  now  —  why,  I  see  as  certainly 
As  that  tlie  morning-star 's  about  to  shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We  \e  a  youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I  do. 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom  drop  : 
His  name  is  Guidi  —  he.  ^11  not  mind  the  monks  — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets  them  talk  — 
He  picks  my  practice  up  —  he  '11  paint  apace, 
I  hope  so  —  though  I  never  live  so  long, 

[130] 


Coronation  of  the   Virgin,  in 
Medici  Chapel  of  Santa  Croce. 


"  Here  '*  Giotto,  vnth  his  Sitiit^  a-j)raisii}g  God.' 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

I  know  what 's  sure  to  follow.     You  be  judge ! 
You  speak  no  Latin  more  than  I^  belike ; 
However,  you  're  my  man,  you  We  seen  the  world 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and  the  power, 

The  shapes  of  things,  their  colors,  lights  and  shades. 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made  it  all ! 

—  For  what  ?     Do  you  feel  thankful,  ay  or  no, 
For  this  fair  town's  face,  yonder  river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky  above. 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman,  child. 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?     What 's  it  all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt  upon. 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  !  —  you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say,  —  paint  these 
Just  as  they  are,  careless  what  comes  of  it  ? 
God's  works  —  paint  anyone,  and  count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth  slip.     Don't  object,  "  His  works 
Are  here  already ;  nature  is  complete  : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her  —  (which  you  can't) 
There  's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat  her,  then." 
For,  don't  you  mark?  we're  made  so  that  we  love 
First  when  we  see  them  painted,  things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to  see; 

And  so  they  are  better,  painted  —  better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.     Art  was  given  for  that ; 
God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so. 
Lending  our  minds  out.     Have  you  noticed,  now. 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face  ?     A  bit  of  chalk. 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though !     How  much  more, 

[  131  ] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same  truth  ! 
That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit-place. 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !     Oh,  oh, 
It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men  shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves  !    This  world 's  no  blot  for  us. 
Nor  blank ;  it  means  intensely,  and  means  good  : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and  drink. 
"  Ay,  but  you  don't  so  instigate  to  prayer  !  ^' 
Strikes  in  the  Prior  :  ^^  when  your  meaning  's  plain 
It  does  not  say  to  folks  —  remember  matins. 
Or,  mind  you  fast  next  Friday  ! ''     Why,  for  this 
What  need  of  art  at  all  ?     A  skull  and  bones. 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wdse,  or,  what 's  best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does  as  well. 
I  painted  a  Saint  Laurence  six  months  since 
At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine  style : 
"  How  looks  my  painting,  now  the  scaffold  's  down  ?  " 
I  ask  a  brother  :  "  Hugely,"  he  returns  — 
^'  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three  slaves 
Wlio  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted  side. 
But 's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our  heart's  content. 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their  own 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in  a  rage : 
We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  beneath. 
Expect  another  job  this  time  next  year. 
For  pity  and  religion  grow  i'  the  crowd  — 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !  ''■'     Hang  the  fools  ! 
—  That  is  —  you  '11  not  mistake  an  idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  God  wot, 

[  132] 


PORTRAIT  of  Toiimuiso  Guidi, 
called  ^lasaccio,  from  his  fresco 
The  Tribute  Money. 


''''We''ve  a  t/ouni/attfr  hep.'  .-  .   .',.,'  ;  ' 
His  name  is  Guidi  —  he  ''II  not  mind  the  7nouks  — 
The  If  call  him  Jfu/kin;/  Tom.'''' 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  130 


•       •       to     < 


FRA   LIPrO   LIPPI 

Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which  turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti  wine  ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows  !  don^t  misreport  me,  now ! 
It 's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse  himself : 
And  hearken  how  I  plot  to  make  amends. 
I  have  bethought  me :  I  shall  paint  a  piece 
.  .  .  There 's  for  you  !     Give  me  six  months,  then  go,  see 
Something  in  Sant''  Ambrogio^s  !     Bless  the  nuns  ! 
They  want  a  cast  o^  my  office.     I  shall  paint 
God  in  the  midst.  Madonna  and  her  babe, 
Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel-brood. 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces,  sweet 
As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  midsummer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint  or  two  — 
Saint  John,  because  he  saves  the  Florentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down  in  black  and  white 
The  convent^s  friends  and  gives  them  a  long  day. 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past  mistake. 
The  man  of  Uz,  (and  Us  without  the  z. 
Painters  who  need  his  patience.)     Well,  all  these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall  come  ; 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  expect. 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great  light. 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo  !  I !  — 
Mazed,  motionless  and  moon-struck  —  I  'm  the  man  ! 
Back  I  shrink  —  what  is  this  I  see  and  hear  ? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk^s  things  by  mistake, 

[  133] 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI 

Mj  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes  all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company ! 

Where  ^s  a  hole,  where  ''s  a  corner  for  escape  ? 

Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a  thing 

Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  ^'  Not  so  fast !  " 

—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence,  "  nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after  all, 

Though   he  ''s  none  of   you !      Could    Saint   John   there, 

draw  — 
His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting-brush  ? 
We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 
Iste  perfecit  opus  !  "     So,  all  smile  — 
I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing  face 
Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 
Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when  you  ^re  gay 
And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors  being  shut, 
Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 
The  hothead  husband !     Thus  I  scuttle  off 
To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  letting  go 
The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 
That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in  the  nick. 
Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint  Lucy,  I  would  say. 
And  so  all 's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the  church 
A  pretty  picture  gained.     Go,  six  months  hence ! 
Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-bye  :  no  lights,  no  lights  ! 
The  street 's  hushed,  and  I  know  my  own  way  back, 
Don^t  fear  me !     There 's  the  gray  beginning.     Zooks ! 


[134] 


1  t^ 


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ANDREA   DEL  SARTO 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO 

{Called  "  THE  FAULTLESS  PAINTER.") 

1855 

BUT  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  ray  Lucrezia ;  bear  with  me  for  once : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? 
I  ''11  work  then  for  your  friend^'s  friend,  never  fear. 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own  way. 
Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own  price. 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small  hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.     Will  it  ?  tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I  '11  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow.  Love  ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you  think. 
This  evening  more  than  usual,  and  it  seems 
As  if  —  forgive  now  —  should  you  let  me  sit 
Here  by  the  window  with  your  hand  in  mine 
And  look  a  half  hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people  use. 
Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up  to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.     Let  us  try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for  this ! 

[  137  ] 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 

And  mine  the  man^s  bared  breast  she  curls  inside. 

Don^t  count  the  time  lost,  neither ;  jou  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  require : 

It  saves  a  model.     So  !  keep  looking  so  — 

My  serpentining  beauty,  rounds  on  rounds ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those  perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so  sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's  moon. 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls  his. 

And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in  turn. 
While  she  looks  —  no  one's :  very  dear,  no  less. 
You  smile  ?  why  there 's  my  picture  ready  made. 
There 's  what  we  painters  call  our  harmony  ! 
A  common  grayness  silvers  everything,  — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That 's  gone  you  know),  —  but  I,  at  every  point ; 
My  youth,  my  hope,  my  art,  being  all  toned  down 
To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 

There  's  the  bell  clinking  from  the  chapel-top  ; 
That  length  of  convent-wall  across  the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more  inside ; 
The  last  monk  leaves  the  garden  ;  days  decrease. 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  everything. 
Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a  shape 
As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and  do, 
A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in  God's  hand. 

[  138] 


^  O  £,  ?: 

5  -•  f-* 
<r>-  crq  ^ 

"  5"  s"  t-" 

tJ>  p  "  I-' 

6  ^.  rii  ^ 

°s.  =•  =■  e 

■      £  =•  '^ 


c    g    S 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he  makes  us  lead ; 

So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we  are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter  :  let  it  lie ! 

This  chamber  for  example  —  turn  your  head  — 

All  that  ^s  behind  us !     You  don't  understand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art. 

But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  people  speak : 

And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the  door 

—  It  is  the  thing.  Love  !  so  such  things  should  be  — 
Behold  Madonna  !  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 

I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know. 

What  I  see,  wliat  at  bottom  of  my  heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 

Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 

I  do  not  boast,  perhaps :  yourself  are  judge 

Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last  week. 

And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in  France. 

At  any  rate  't  is  easy,  all  of  it ! 

No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that 's  long  past : 

I  do  what  many  dream  of  all  their  lives 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize  to  do. 
And  fail  in  doing.     I  could  count  twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  not  leave  this  town. 
Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how  the  others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you  smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes  afloat,  — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less.  Someone  says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so  much  less  ! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia  :  I  am  judged. 

[  1^9  ] 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  in  them_, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and  stopped-up  brain^ 
Heart,  or  whatever  else,,  than  goes  on  to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman^s  hand  of  mine. 
Their  works  drop  grouudward,  but  themselves,  I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that 's  shut  to  me. 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure  enough. 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot  tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I  sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men !  at  a  word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them,  it  boils  too. 
I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself. 
Know  what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by  men^s  blame 
Or  their  praise  either.     Somebody  remarks 
Morello^s  outline  there  is  wrongly  traced, 
His  hue  mistaken ;  what  of  that  ?  or  else, 
Rightly  traced  and  well  ordered ;  what  of  that  ? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the  mountain  care  ? 
Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed  his  grasp. 
Or  what 's  a  heaven  for  ?     All  is  silver-gray 
Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art :  the  worse  ! 
I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what  might  gain; 
And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to  sigh 
'^  1  lad  I  been  two,  another  and  myself, 
Our  head  would  have  overlooked  the  world  !  "     No  doubt. 
Yonder 's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous  youth 
The  Urbinate  who  died  live  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George  Vasari  sent  it  me.) 
Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he  did  it  all, 

[  140  ] 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

Pouring  his  soul,  with  kings  and  popes  to  see, 

Eeaching,  that  heaven  might  so  replenish  him. 

Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it  gives  way ; 

That  arm  is  wrongly  put — and  there  again — ■ 

A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing^s  lines. 

Its  body,  so  to  speak  :  its  soul  is  right. 

He  means  right  -—  that,  a  child  may  understand. 

Still,  what  an  arm  !  and  I  could  alter  it : 

But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the  stretch  — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me  !     And  wherefore  out  ? 

Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given  me  soul. 

We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and  you. 

Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked,  I  think  — 

More  than  I  merit,  yes,  by  many  times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  perfect  brow. 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  perfect  mouth. 

And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as  a  bird 

The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the  snare  — 

Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but  brought  a  mind  ! 

Some  women  do  so.     Had  the  mouth  there  urged 

"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for  gain.  '- 

The  present  by  the  future,  what  is  that  ?  U 

Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Agnolo  ! 

Rafael  is  waiting  :  up  to  God,  all  three  !  " 

I  might  have  done  it  for  you.     So  it  seems  : 

Perhaps  not.     All  is  as  God  overrules. 

Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul's  self; 

The  rest  avail  not.     Why  do  I  need  you  ? 

What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 

[  i«  ] 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing,  will  not ; 
And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  perceive  : 
Yet  the  will 's  somewhat  —  somewhat,  too,  the  power 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.     At  the  end, 
God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  punishes. 
'T  is  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be  strict. 
That  I  am  something  underrated  here. 
Poor  this  long  while,  despised,  to  speak  the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home  all  day, 
For  fear  of  chancing  on  the  Paris  lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look  aside ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes ;  I  must  bear  it  all. 
"Well  may  they  speak  !     That  Francis,  that  first  time, 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontainebleau  ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave  the  ground, 
Put  on  the  glory,  E-afael's  daily  wear. 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  golden  look,  — 
One  finger  in  his  beard  or  twisted  curl 
Over  his  mouth's  good  mark  that  made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round  my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my  ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on  me. 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with  his  eyes. 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a  fire  of  souls 
Profuse,  my  hand  kept  plying  by  those  hearts,  — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face  beyond, 
This  in  the  background,  waitiug  on  my  work. 
To  crown  the  issue  with  a  last  reward  ! 
A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly  days  ? 

[  142  ] 


PORTRAIT  of  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  in 
his  Coronation  of  the  Virij;in. 


"  Up  shall*  cdm4 
Out  of  a  corner  lohen  you  hast  expect,^ 
....  who  but  Lippo  !     1 !  " 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  133 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO 

And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  .  but  I  know  — 
''T  is  done  and  past ;  ^t  was  right,  my  instinct  said  ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not  gray, 
And  I  ^m  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun  should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls  make  his  world. 
How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to  your  heart. 
The  triumph  was,  to  have  ended  there ;  then,  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is  lost  ? 
Let  my  hands  frame  your  face  in  your  hair's  gold, 
You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 
"  Rafael  did  this,  Andrea  painted  that ; 
The  Romanes  is  the  better  when  you  pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Yirgin  was  his  wife  — '' 
Men  will  excuse  me.     I  am  glad  to  judge 
Both  pictures  in  your  presence ;  clearer  grows 
My  better  fortune,  I  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia,  as  God  lives. 
Said  one  day  Agnolo,  his  very  self. 
To  Rafael  ...  I  have  known  it  all  these  years  .  .  , 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming  out  his  thoughts 
Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see. 
Too  lifted  up  in  heart  because  of  it) 
"  Friend,  there  's  a  certain  sorry  little  scrub 
Goes  up  and  down  our  Florence,  none  cares  how. 
Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  execute 
As  you  are,  pricked  on  by  your  popes  and  kings, 
Would  bring  the  sweat  into  that  brow  of  yours  !  '^ 
To  Rafael's !  —  And  indeed  the  arm  is  wrong. 

[  143  ] 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 

I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to  see, 
Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the  line  should  go  ! 
Ay,  but  the  soul !  he  ''s  Eafael !  rub  it  out ! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the  truth, 
(What  he  ?  why,  who  but  Michel  Agnolo  ? 
Do  you  forget  already  words  like  those  ?) 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance,  so  lost,  — 
Is,  whether  you^re  —  not  grateful  —  but  more  pleased. 
Well,  let  me  think  so.     And  you  smile  indeed  ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour !     Another  smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every  night 
I  should  work  better,  do  you  comprehend  ? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give  you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now  ;  there  ^s  a  star ; 
Morello  's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show  the  wall, 
The  cue-owls  speak  the  name  we  call  them  by. 
€ome  from  the  window,  love,  — come  in,  at  last. 
Inside  the  melancholy  little  house 
We  built  to  be  so  gay  with.     God  is  just. 
King  Francis  may  forgive  me  :  oft  at  nights 
When  I  look  up  from  painting,  eyes  tired  out. 
The  walls  become  illumined,  brick  from  brick 
Distinct,  instead  of  mortar,  fierce  bright  gold. 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them  with  ! 
Let  us  but  love  each  other.     Must  you  go  ? 
That  Cousin  here  again  ?  lie  waits  outside  ? 
Must  see  you  —  you,  and  not  with  me  ?     Those  loans  ? 
More  gaming  debts  to  pay  ?  you  smiled  for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me  !  have  you  more  to  spend  ? 

[  144  ] 


O  a-  Oi  O 

-^  i  I? 

a    pLi  I— < 

?^  f  1-3 

^  J?  > 

^  5  '^ 
S-'  s^  oj 


? 

"i 


;5 


^ 


ANDREA   DEL  SARTO 

"While  hand  and  eye  and  something  of  a  heart 

Are  left  me,  work  ^s  my  ware,  and  what  ^s  it  worth  ? 

I  ''11  pay  my  fancy.     Only  let  me  sit 

The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening  out. 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 

How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back  in  Prance, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Yirgin^'s  face^ 

Not  yours  this  time  !     I  want  you  at  my  side 

To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Agnolo  — 

Judge  all  I  do  and  tell  you  of  its  worth. 

Will  you  ?     To-morrow,  satisfy  your  friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor. 

Finish  the  portrait  out  of  hand  —  there,  there. 

And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or  two 

If  he  demurs  ;  the  whole  should  prove  enough 

To  pay  for  this  same  Cousin^s  freak.     Beside, 

What  ^s  better  and  what  ^s  all  I  care  about. 

Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the  ruff ! 

Love,  does  that  please  you  ?     Ah,  but  what  does  he. 

The  Cousin !  what  does  he  to  please  you  more  ? 

I  am  grown  peaceful  as  old  age  to-night. 
I  regret  little,  I  would  change  still  less. 
Since  there  my  past  life  lies,  why  alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis !  —  it  is  true 
I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  complied. 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and  all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died  of  want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you  see 

10  [  145  ] 


ANDREA   DEI.   SARTO 

How  one  gets  rich !     Let  each  oue  bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and  poor  they  died : 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my  time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.     Some  good  son 
Paint  my  two  hundred  pictures  —  let  him  try ! 
No  doubt,  there 's  something  strikes  a  balance.     Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems  to-night. 
This  must  suffice  me  here.     What  would  one  have  ? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one  more  chance  — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusalem 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's  reed. 
For  Leonard,  Eafael,  Agnolo  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a  wife. 
While  I  have  mine  !     So  —  still  they  overcome 
Because  there  's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I  choose. 

Again  the  Cousin's  whistle  1     Go,  my  Love. 


[  1^6] 


THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST 


THE  STATUE  AND   THE  BUST 

THERE  ^S  a  palace  in  Florence^  the  world  knows  well. 
And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square. 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell. 

Ages  ago,  a  lady  there. 

At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 

Asked,  "  Who  rides  by  with  the  royal  air?  " 

The  bridesmaids^  prattle  around  her  ceased ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand ; 

They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride  increased — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  expand  — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a  breath 
Whispered,  "The  Great-Duke  Ferdinand/' 

That  selfsame  instant,  underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty  and  fine  like  a  swordless  sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay. 
Till  he  threw  his  head  back  —  "  Who  is  she  ?  " 
—  "A  bride  the  Eiccardi  brings  home  to-day .''' 

[  149] 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

Hair  in  heaps  lay  heavily 

Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure  — 

Carved  like  the  heart  of  the  coal-black  tree. 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure  — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her  eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled  the  fine  empty  sheath  of  a  man,  — 
The  Duke  grew  straightway  brave  and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can ; 

She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes : 

The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life  began. 


Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  their  sakes, 

A  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  night 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes. 


(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 

But  the  palace  overshadows  one. 

Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God  requite ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was  done, 
Tlirougli  the  first  republic's  murder  there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  sou.) 

The  Duke  (with  tlic  statue/s  face  in  the  square) 
Turned  in  the  midst  of  his  multitude 
At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal  pair. 
[150] 


^^ 


5  ^ 

I  ^ 

o    "^ 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 

A  single  minute  and  no  more, 

While  the  bridegroom  bent^  as  a  man  subdued 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the  floor  — 
For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  conferred, 
As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a  word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not  think. 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.     At  day's  brink 
He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taper's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 

That  the  door  she  had  passed  was  shut  on  her 

TiU  the  final  catafalk  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and  stir. 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the  East 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's  chronicler. 

Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to  a  feast. 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much  beside. 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride : 
"  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Keplied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart  replied  — 

[  151  ] 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

"  If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil  twice. 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of  hell 
Whence  a  damned  soul  looks  on  paradise ! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well. 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

''  'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  borrow, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy^s  trim, 

And  I  save  my  soul  —  but  not  to-morrow/^ - 

(She  checked  herself  and  her  eye  grew  dim) 
"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state : 
I  must  keep  it  one  day  more  for  him. 

"  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate/' 

She  turned  on  her  side  and  slept.     Just  so  ! 
So  we  resolve  on  a  thing  and  sleep  : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "  Dear  or  cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may  prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love. 
He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on  call. 
As  his  duty  bade,  by  tlie  Duke's  alcove) 
L162] 


IV/TADONNA  and  Child,  from 
Andrea  del  Sarto's  Holy 
Pamily,  in  Pitti  Gallery. 


^l 


** Raphael  did  tli'is,  Andrea- pcihdt.id  that,:  i 
The  Roman  s  is  the  better  Wiwn  yov_  pxay^, 
But  still  the  others  Virgin  was  his  wife.'"' 

—  Andrea  del  Sarto,  p.  143 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

And  smiled  "  'T  was  a  very  funeral, 

Your  lady  Avill  think,  this  feast  of  ours,  — 

A  shame  to  efface,  whate^'er  befall ! 

"  What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno  bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 

Cure  last  nighty's  fault  with  this  morning's  flowers? 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be  seen 
On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,  "  Too  much  favor  for  me  so  mean ! 

"  But,  alas  !  my  lady  leaves  the  South ; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apennine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 

"  Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If  she  quits  her  palace  twice  this  year. 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  decline." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kindly  fear. 
Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring  : 
Be  our  feast  to-nieht  as  usual  here  !  '^ 


'&' 


And  then  to  himself  —  "  Which  night  shall  bring 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces,  fool  — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the  king ! 

'^  Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night,  nor  cool  — 
For  to-night  the  Envoy  arrives  from  France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself,  my  tool. 

[  153] 


THE   STATUE   AND  THE   BUST 

'^  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  perchance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 

With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  countenance : 


"  For  I  ride  —  what  should  I  do  but  ride  ? 

And  passing  the  palace,  if  I  list, 

May  glance  at  its  window  —  well  betide  ! 


y> 


So  said,  so  done  :  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent  brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit  kissed. 

Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow. 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them  now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day  more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore. 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half  sigh. 
They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  before. 

They  thouglit  it  would  work  infallibly. 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and  earth  : 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm  passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit  in  winter's  dearth 
By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the  rose : 
The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain  worth : 
[  154  ] 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  oppose 

Were  simple  policy ;  better  wait : 

We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no  foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's  fate. 
Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the  grate ! 

And  she  —  she  watched  the  square  like  a  book 
Holding  one  picture  and  only  one. 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the  book  was  done. 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at  night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years  ;  gleam  by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth  and  love. 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed  a  dream ; 

Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still  above : 
But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth  ? 
Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  remoVe ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,  and  the  silver  thread  that  streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's  tooth. 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so  peaked,  — 
And  wondered  who  the  woman  was. 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked, 

[  155  ] 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass  — 
"  Summon  here/"'  she  suddenly  said, 
Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 


(t 


"  Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 

Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will  change. 

And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet  them  while  the  seasons  range. 

"  Make  me  a  face  on  the  window  there. 
Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while. 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square ! 

"  And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which  the  dead  must  spend 
Down  in  their  darkness  under  the  aisle, 

"To  say,  '  What  matters  it  at  the  end? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was  warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced  friend.' 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red  charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the  brow. 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside  arm  — 

"  Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows  how, 
The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 
[  156  ] 


S=2 


si 


^rt 


E   ir 


?   P 


o 

> 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

But  long  ere  Eobbia's  cornice,  fine 

With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves  enlace. 

Was  set  where  now  is  the  empty  shrine  — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue  space. 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of  sky. 
The  passionate  pale  lady^s  face  — 

Eyeing  ever,  with  earnest  eye 

And  quick-turned  neck  at  its  breathless  stretch. 

Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by  — ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest  wretch 
In  Florence,  "  Youth  —  my  dream  escapes  ! 
Will  its  record  stay  ? ''     And  he  bade  them  fetch 

Some  subtle  moulder  of  brazen  shapes  — 
"  Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a  man 
Ere  his  body  find  the  grave  that  gapes  ? 

"  John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"  In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft : 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future  suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"  While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay  brave  in  bronze 
Admire  and  say,  ^  When  he  was  alive 
How  he  would  take  his  pleasure  once ! ' 

[157] 


THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

"  And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 

To  listen  the  while,,  and  laugh  in  my  tomb 

At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive/^ 


So  !     While  these  wait  the  trump  of  doom. 
How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder. 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room? 

Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago. 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his. 

The  soldier- saints  who,  row  on  row. 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of  bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  manifest. 

He  had  burned  his  way  thro^  the  world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  Avas  best, 

For  their  end  was  a  crime.^^  —  Oh,  a  crime  will  do 

As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test. 

As  a  virtue  golden  through  and  through. 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 

And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's  view ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of  pelf  ? 
Where  a  button  goes,  't  were  an  epigram 
To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 
[  158] 


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THE   STATUE   AND   THE   BUST 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the  sham : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  submit. 

When  your  table  's  a  hat,  and  your  prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every  whit. 

Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same  skill, 

Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  losing  it. 

If  you  choose  to  play  !  —  is  my  principle. 

Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 

For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it  will ! 

The  counter  our  lovers  staked  was  lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin : 

And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate  ghost 

Is,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin. 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I  say. 
You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you?     De  teyfahula  I 


t  159  J 


THE  RING  AND   THE  BOOK 
BOOK  I 


THE  RING  AND   THE  BOOK 

I 

THE  RING  AND   THE  BOOK 

DO  you  see  this  Ring  ? 
'Tis  Rome-work,  made  to  match 
(By  Castellani's  imitative  craft) 
Etrurian  circlets  found,  some  happy  morn. 
After  a  dropping  April ;  found  alive 
Spark-like  ■'mid  unearthed  slope-side  figtree-roots 
That  roof  old  tombs  at  Chiusi :  soft,  you  see. 
Yet  crisp  as  jewel-cutting.     There  ■'s  one  trick, 
(Craftsmen  instruct  me)  one  approved  device 
And  but  one,  fits  such  slivers  of  pure  gold 
As  this  was,  —  such  mere  oozings  from  the  mine, 
Yirgin  as  oval  tawny  pendent  tear 
At  beehive-edge  when  ripened  combs  o'erflow, — 
To  bear  the  file's  tooth  and  the  hammer's  tap : 
Since  hammer  needs  must  widen  out  the  round, 
And  file  emboss  it  fine  with  lily-flowers. 
Ere  the  stuff  grow  a  ring-thing  right  to  wear. 
That  trick  is,  the  artificer  melts  up  wax 
With  honey,  so  to  speak;  he  mingles  gold 
[  163] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

With  gold's  alloy,  and,  duly  tempering  both, 
Effects  a  manageable  mass,  then  works : 
But  his  work  ended,  once  the  thing  a  ring, 
Oh,  there 's  repristination  !     Just  a  spirt 
O'  the  proper  fiery  acid  o'er  its  face. 
And  forth  the  alloy  unfastened  flies  in  fume ; 
While,  self-sufficient  now,' the  shape  remains, 
The  rondure  brave,  the  lilied  loveliness, 
Gold  as  it  was,  is,  shall  be  evermore : 
Prime  nature  with  an  added  artistry  — 
No  carat  lost,  and  you  have  gained  a  ring. 
What  of  it  ?     'T  is  a  figure,  a  symbol,  say  ; 
A  thing's  sign  ;  now  for  the  thing  signified. 

Do  you  see  this  square  old  yellow  Book,  I  toss 
F  the  air,  and  catch  again,  and  twirl  about 
By  the  crumpled  vellum  covers,  —  pure  crude  fact 
Secreted  from  man's  life  when  hearts  beat  hard. 
And  brains,  high-blooded,  ticked  two  centuries  since  ? 
Examine  it  yourselves  !     I  found  this  book. 
Gave  a  lira  for  it,  eightpence  English  just, 
(Mark  the  predestination !)  when  a  Hand, 
Always  above  my  shoulder,  pushed  me  once, 
One  day  still  fierce  'mid  many  a  day  struck  calm, 
Across  a  square  in  Florence,  crammed  with  booths. 
Buzzing  and  blaze,  noontide  and  market-time. 
Toward  Baccio's  marble,  —  ay,  the  basement-ledge 
O'  the  pedestal  where  sits  and  menaces 
John  of  the  Black  Bands  with  the  upright  spear, 

[  164  ] 


o 


by  John  of  Boloijna  (Jean  Boul- 
logne,  from  Douai),  in  Piazza  dell' 
Annuuziata. 


"  John  of  Douay  shall  effecA  my  plan ^ 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft. 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can. 
In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so  oft/" 


n 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

^T  wixt  palace  and  church,  —  Eiccardi  where  they  lived, 
His  race,  and  San  Lorenzo  where  they  lie. 
This  book,  —  precisely  on  that  palace-step 
Which,  meant  for  lounging  knaves  o'  the  Medici, 
Now  serves  re-venders  to  display  their  ware,  — 
^Mongst  odds  and  ends  of  ravage,  picture-frames 
White  through  the  worn  gilt,  mirror-sconces  chipped, 
Bronze  angel-heads  once  knobs  attached  to  chests 
(Handled  when  ancient  dames  chose  forth  brocade). 
Modern  chalk  drawings,  studies  from  the  nude, 
Samples  of  stone,  jet,  breccia,  porphyry 
Polished  and  rough,  sundry  amazing  busts 
In  baked  earth,  (broken,  Providence  be  praised !) 
A  wreck  of  tapestry,  proudly-purposed  web 
When  reds  and  blues  were  indeed  red  and  blue. 
Now  offered  as  a  mat  to  save  bare  feet 
(Since  carpets  constitute  a  cruel  cost) 
Treading  the  chill  scagliola  bedward  :  then 
A  pile  of  brown-etched  prints,  two  crazie  each. 
Stopped  by  a  conch  a-top  from  fluttering  forth 
—  Sowing  the  Square  with  works  of  one  and  the  same 
blaster,  the  imaginative  Sienese 
Great  in  the  scenic  backgrounds  —  (name  and  fame 
None  of  you  know,  nor  does  he  fare  the  w^orse  :) 
From  these  '.  .  .  Oh,  with  a  Lionard  going  cheap 
If  it  should  prove,  as  promised,  that  Joconde 
Whereof  a  copy  contents  the  Louvre !  —  these 
I  picked  this  book  from.     Pive  compeers  in  flank 
Stood  left  and  right  of  it  as  tempting  more  — 

[165] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

A  dogseared  Spicilegium,  the  fond  tale 

O'  the  Frail  One  of  the  Flower,  by  young  Dumas, 

Vulgarized  Horace  for  the  use  of  schools, 

The  Life,  Death,  Miracles  of  Saint  Somebody, 

Saint  Somebody  Else,  his  Miracles,  Death  and  Life,  — 

With  this,  one  glance  at  the  lettered  back  of  which. 

And  "  Stall ! ''  cried  I :  a  lira  made  it  mine. 

Here  it  is,  this  I  toss  and  take  again ; 
Small-quarto  size,  part  print  part  manuscript : 
A  book  in  shape  but,  really,  pure  crude  fact 
Secreted  from  man's  life  when  hearts  beat  hard, 
And  brains,  high-blooded,  ticked  two  centuries  since. 
Give  it  me  back !     The  thing  ^s  restorative 
I'  the  touch  and  sight. 

That  memorable  day, 
(June  was  the  month,  Lorenzo  named  the  Square) 
I  leaned  a  little  and  overlooked  my  prize 
By  the  low^  railing  round  the  fountain-source 
Close  to  the  statue,  where  a  step  descends : 
While  clinked  the  cans  of  copper,  as  stooped  and  rose 
Thick-ankled  girls  who  brimmed  them,  and  made  place 
For  marketmen  glad  to  pitch  basket,  down, 
Dip  a  broad  melon-leaf  that  holds  the  wet. 
And  whisk  their  faded  fresh.     And  on  I  read 
Presently,  thougli  my  patli  grcAv  perilous 
Between  the  outspread  straw-work,  piles  of  plait 
Soon  to  be  flapping,  each  o'er  two  black  eyes 

[166] 


o 


o 


o 


F    CA 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

And  swathe  of  Tuscan  hair,  on  festas  fine : 

Tlirough  fire-irons,  tribes  of  tongs,  shovels  in  sheaves, 

Skeleton  bedsteads,  wardrobe-drawers  agape, 

Eows  of  tall  slim  brass  lamps  with  dangling  gear, — 

And  worse,  cast  clothes  a- sweetening  in  the  sun : 

None  of  them  took  my  eye  from  off  my  prize. 

Still  read  I  on,  from  v/ritten  title-page 

To  written  index,  on,  through  street  and  street, 

At  the  Strozzi,  at  the  Pillar,  at  the  Bridge ; 

Till,  by  the  time  I  stood  at  home  again 

In  Casa  Guidi  by  Felice  Church, 

Under  the  doorway  where  the  black  begins 

With  the  first  stone-slab  of  the  staircase  cold, 

I  had  mastered  the  contents,  knew  the  whole  truth 

Gathered  together,  bound  up  in  this  book. 

Print  three-fifths,  written  supplement  the  rest. 

"  Romana  HomicicUorum  "  —  nay, 

Better  translate  —  "A  Eoman  murder-case  : 

Position  of  the  entire  criminal  cause 

Of  Guido  Franceschini,  nobleman. 

With  certain  Four  the  cutthroats  in  his  pay, 

Tried,  all  five,  and  found  guilty  and  put  to  death 

By  heading  or  hanging  as  befitted  ranks, 

At  Eome  on  February  Twenty  Two, 

Since  our  salvation  Sixteen  Ninety  Eight : 

Wherein  it  is  disputed  if,  and  when. 

Husbands  may  kill  adulterous  wives,  yet  'scape 

The  customary  forfeit." 

[167] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 


1?  izi^nu^ 

Cut  tuttaja  Caufa  GHminauD 

Coniro 
y^uidol/ranc&fcninL  JI/o^mc 

■fattl  morlrt'inRoma  :/ai{t(r. 

(yJ pyiJTio  con  la  cuc:o/!^7/onc  £7  ctftr/ 
gi/LiHi^  at  iJ^orccL 

Jiomana  MmicUiorunh 

Cd/sputatur  an  agunndvJnarity 
/^^^^  /^ccimreY^orem 

^dultcrani. 
^tDJ^u€  incufvu  pdcnt,  6rd:  ^ 


fl\educed  racsimlle  of  Title-pace  of  Report  of  the  Trial  of  Guldo  Franceschiiil.) 


[  168  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Word  for  word. 
So  ran  the  title-page  :  murder,  or  else 
Legitimate  punishment  of  the  other  crime. 
Accounted  murder  by  mistake,  —  just  that 
And  no  more,  in  a  Latin  cramp  enough 
When  the  law  had  her  eloquence  to  launch. 
But  interfilleted  with  Italian  streaks 
When  testimony  stooped  to  mother-tongue,  — 
That,  was  this  old  square  yellow  book  about. 

Now,  as  the  ingot,  ere  the  ring  w^as  forged. 
Lay  gold,  (beseech  you,  hold  that  figure  fast !) 
So,  in  this  book  lay  absolutely  truth, 
Fanciless  fact,  the  documents  indeed. 
Primary  lawyer-pleadings  for,  against. 
The  aforesaid  Five ;  real  summed-up  circumstance 
Adduced  in  proof  of  these  on  either  side. 
Put  forth  and  printed,  as  the  practice  was. 
At  Eome,  in  the  Apostolic  Chamber's  type. 
And  so  submitted  to  the  eye  o'  the  Court 
Presided  over  by  His  Reverence 
Eome's  Governor  and  Criminal  Judge,  —  the  trial 
Itself,  to  all  intents,  being  then  as  now 
Here  in  the  book  and  nowise  out  of  it ; 
Seeing,  there  properly  was  no  judgment-bar, 
No  bringing  of  accuser  and  accused. 
And  whoso  judged  both  parties,  face  to  face 
Before  some  court,  as  we  conceive  of  courts. 
There  was  a  Hall  of  Justice ;  that  came  last : 
[  169] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Eor  Justice  had  a  chamber  by  the  hall 

Where  she  took  evidence  first,  summed  up  the  same. 

Then  sent  accuser  and  accused  alike. 

In  person  of  the  advocate  of  each. 

To  weigh  its  worth,  thereby  arrange,  array 

The  battle.     ''T  was  the  so-styled  Fisc  began. 

Pleaded  (and  since  he  only  spoke  in  print 

The  printed  voice  of  him  lives  now  as  then) 

The  public  Prosecutor  —  "  Murder  ^s  proved  ; 

With  five  .  .  .  what  we  call  qualities  of  bad, 

Worse,  worst,  and  yet  worse  still,  and  still  worse  yet ; 

Crest  over  crest  crowning  the  cockatrice. 

That  beggar  helPs  regalia  to  enrich 

Count  Guido  Franceschini :  punish  hiin  !  " 

Thus  was  the  paper  put  before  the  court 

In  the  next  stage,  (no  noisy  work  at  all,) 

To  study  at  ease.     In  due  time  like  reply 

Came  from  the  so-styled  Patron  of  the  Poor, 

Official  mouthpiece  of  the  five  accused 

Too  poor  to  fee  a  better,  —  Guidons  luck 

Or  else  his  fellows,^  —  which,  I  hardly  know,  — 

An  outbreak  as  of  wonder  at  the  world, 

A  fury-fit  of  outraged  innocence, 

A  passion  of  betrayed  simplicity  : 

"  Punish  Count  Guido  ?     For  what  crime,  what  hint 

O'  the  colour  of  a  crime,  inform  us  first ! 

Reward  him  rather  !     Eecognize,  we  say, 

In  the  deed  done,  a  righteous  judgment  dealt ! 

All  conscience  and  all  courage,  —  there  's  our  Count 

[  1^^  ] 


0 


LD  book -stall  at  base  of  Statue 
of  Giovanni  de'  Medici,  by 
Baccio  Bandinelli. 


"  Bacciu's  marble^  —  ai/,  the  hasement  ledge 

O'  the  pedestal  where  sits  and  menaces 

John  of  the  Black  Bands  with  the  upriijht  spear."" 

—  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  p.  1G4 


C   «.       f'    o    H     > 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Charactered  in  a  word ;  and,  what  ^s  more  strange. 
He  had  companionship  in  privilege. 
Found  four  courageous  conscientious  friends  : 
Absolve,  applaud  all  five,  as  props  of  law, 
Sustainers  of  society  !  —  perchance 
A  trifle  over-hasty  with  the  hand 
To  hold  her  tottering  ark,  had  tumbled  else ; 
But  that  ^s  a  splendid  fault  whereat  we  wink, 
Wishing  your  cold  correctness  sparkled  so  !  ^' 
Thus  paper  second  followed  paper  first. 
Thus  did  the  two  join  issue  —  nay,  the  four. 
Each  pleader  having  an  adjunct.     "  True,  he  killed 
—  So  to  speak  —  in  a  certain  sort  —  his  wife. 
But  laudably,  since  thus  it  happed !  "  quoth  one : 
Whereat,  more  witness  and  the  case  postponed. 
"Thus  it  happed  not,  since  thus  he  did  the  deed. 
And  proved  himself  thereby  portentousest 
Of  cutthroats  and  a  prodigy  of  crime. 
As  the  woman  that  he  slaughtered  was  a  saint. 
Martyr  and  miracle  ! ''  quoth  the  other  to  match  : 
Again,  more  witness,  and  the  case  postponed. 
"  A  miracle,  ay  —  of  lust  and  impudence ; 
Hear  my  new  reasons  ! ''  interposed  the  first : 
"  —  Coupled  with  more  of  mine  !  "  pursued  his  peer. 
"  Beside,  the  precedents,  the  authorities  ! '' 
From  both  at  once  a  cry  with  an  echo,  that ! 
That  was  a  firebrand  at  each  fox's  tail 
Unleashed  in  a  cornfield :  soon  spread  flare  enough, 
As  hurtled  thither  and  there  heaped  themselves 

[171  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

From  earth's  four  corners,  all  authority 

And  precedent  for  putting  wives  to  death, 

Or  letting  wives  live,  sinful  as  they  seem. 

How  legislated,  now,  in  this  respect, 

Solon  and  his  Athenians  ?     Quote  the  code 

Of  Eomulus  and  Rome  !     Justinian  speak ! 

Nor  modern  Baldo,  Bartolo  be  dumb ! 

The  Roman  voice  was  potent,  plentiful ; 

Cornelia  de  Sicariis  hurried  to  help 

Pompeia  de  Parricidiis;  Julia  de 

Something-or-other  jostled  Lex  this-and-that ; 

King  Solomon  confirmed  Apostle  Paul : 

That  nice  decision  of  Dolabella,  eh  ? 

That  pregnant  instance  of  Theodoric,  oh ! 

Down  to  that  choice  example  ^lian  gives 

(An  instance  I  find  much  insisted  on) 

Of  the  elephant  who,  brute-beast  though  he  were. 

Yet  understood  and  punished  on  the  spot 

His  master's  naughty  spouse  and  faithless  friend; 

A  true  tale  wliich  lias  edified  each  child. 

Much  more  sliall  ilourish  favoured  by  our  court  1 

Pages  of  proof  this  way,  and  that  way  proof. 

And  always  —  once  again  the  case  postponed. 

Thus  wrangled,  brangled,  jangled  tliey  a  month, 

—  Only  on  paper,  pleadings  all  in  print. 

Nor  ever  was,  except  i'  the  brains  of  men. 

More  noise  by  word  of  mouth  than  you  hear  now  — 

Till  the  court  cut  all  short  with  "  Judged,  your  cause. 

Receive  our  sentence  !     Praise  God  !     We  pronounce 

[  na] 


L^1UUAK1>»1  r.VLAUJ^  HI   Via 

Lai'sa,  now  Via  Cavour; 
architecture  of  Michelozzi, 
15th  century. 


'"''  liiccardi  v^here  they  lived,  his  race  J'     *  «  '^.  . 

—  The  Ring  and  the  Book,  p.  1G5 

"-^  feast  was  held  that  selfsame  niyht 

In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow  makes.'''' 

—  The  Statue  and  the  Bust,  p.  150 

"  Those  great  rings  serve  more  purjMses  than  Just 
To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  !  " 

—  Fra  Lippo  Lippi,  p.  129 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Count  Guido  devilish  and  damnable : 

His  wife  Pompilia  in  thought,  word  and  deed. 

Was  perfect  pure,  he  murdered  her  for  that : 

As  for  the  Four  who  helped  the  One,  all  Five  — 

Why,  let  employer  and  hirelings  share  alike 

In  guilt  and  guilt^s  reward,  the  death  their  due ! "" 

So  was  the  trial  at  end,  do  you  suppose  ? 

"  Guilty  you  find  him,  death  you  doom  him  to  ? 

Ay,  were  not  Guido,  more  than  needs,  a  priest. 

Priest  and  to  spare  !  '^  —  this  was  a  shot  reserved ; 

I  learn  this  from  epistles  which  begin 

Here  where  the  print  ends,  —  see  the  pen  and  ink 

Of  the  advocate,  the  ready  at  a  pinch  !  — 

"  My  client  boasts  the  clerkly  privilege. 

Has  taken  minor  orders  many  enough. 

Shows  still  sufficient  chrism  upon  his  pate 

To  neutralize  a  blood-stain :  presbyter , 

PrimcB  tonsurce,  siihdiacomis, 

Sacerdos,  so  he  slips  from  underneath 

Your  power,  the  temporal,  slides  inside  the  robe 

Of  mother  Church  :  to  her  we  make  appeal 

By  the  Pope,  the  Church's  head  !  " 

A  parlous  plea. 
Put  in  with  noticeable  effect,  it  seems ; 
"  Since  straight,"  —  resumes  the  zealous  orator. 
Making  a  friend  acquainted  with  the  facts,  — 
"  Once  the  word  '  clericalitv  '  let  fall. 
Procedure  stopped  and  freer  breath  was  drawn 

[  1^^  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

By  all  considerate  and  responsible  Eome/' 

Quality  took  the  decent  part,  of  course; 

Held  by  the  husband,  who  was  noble  too : 

Or,  for  the  matter  of  that,  a  churl  would  side 

With  too-refined  susceptibility, 

And  honor  which,  tender  in  the  extreme, 

Stung  to  the  quick,  must  roughly  right  itself 

At  all  risks,  not  sit  still  and  whine  for  law 

As  a  Jew  would,  if  you  squeezed  him  to  the  wall. 

Brisk-trotting  through  the  Ghetto.     Nay,  it  seems, 

Even  the  Emperor's  Envoy  had  his  say 

To  say  on  the  subject ;  might  not  see,  unmoved. 

Civility  menaced  throughout  Christendom 

By  too  harsh  measure  dealt  her  champion  here. 

Lastly,  what  made  all  safe,  the  Pope  was  kind. 

From  his  youth  up,  reluctant  to  take  life. 

If  mercy  might  be  just  and  yet  show  grace ; 

Much  more  unlikely  then,  in  extreme  age. 

To  take  a  life  the  general  sense  bade  spare. 

^T  was  plain  that  G  uido  would  go  scatheless  yet. 

But  human  promise,  oh,  how  short  of  shine  ! 
How  topple  down  the  piles  of  hope  we  rear  ! 
How  history  proves  .  .  .  nay,  read  Herodotus ! 
Suddenly  starting  from  a  nap,  as  it  were, 
A  dog-sleep  witli  one  shut,  one  open  orb. 
Cried  the  Pope's  great  self,  —  Innocent  by  name 
And  nature  too,  and  eighty-six  years  old, 
Antonio  Pignatelli  of  Naples,  Pope 

[  m] 


THE   RIxNG   AND   THE   BOOK 

Who  had  trod  many  lands,  known  many  deeds, 

Probed  many  hearts,  beginning  with  his  own^ 

And  now  was  far  in  readiness  for  God,  — 

'T  was  he  who  first  bade  leave  those  souls  in  peace. 

Those  Jansenists,  re-nicknamed  Molinists, 

('Gainst  whom  the  cry  went,  like  a  frowsy  tune. 

Tickling  men's  ears  —  the  sect  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour 

V  the  teeth  of  the  world  which,  clown-like,  loves  to  chew 

Be  it  but  a  straw  'twixt  work  and  whistling- while. 

Taste  some  vituperation,  bite  away. 

Whether  at  marjoram -sprig  or  garlic-clove," 

Aught  it  may  sport  with,  spoil,  and  then  spit  forth) 

'^  Leave  them  alone,"  bade  he,  '^  those  Molinists ! 

Who  may  have  other  light  than  we  perceive. 

Or  why  is  it  the  whole  world  hates  them  thus  ? '''' 

Also  he  peeled  ofP  that  last  scandal-rag 

Of  Nepotism ;  and  so  observed  the  poor 

That  men  would  merrily  say,  "  Halt,  deaf  and  blind. 

Who  feed  on  fat  things,  leave  the  master's  self 

To  gather  up  the  fragments  of  his  feast. 

These  be  the  nephews  of  Pope  Innocent !  — 

His  own  meal  costs  but  five  carlines  a  day, 

Poor-priest''s  allowance,  for  he  claims  no  more/^ 

- —  He  cried  of  a  sudden,  this  great  good  old  Pope, 

When  they  appealed  in  last  resort  to  him, 

"  I  have  mastered  the  whole  matter :  I  nothing  doubt 

Though  Guido  stood  forth  priest  from  head  to  heel. 

Instead  of,  as  alleged,  a  piece  of  one,  — 

And  further,  were  he,  from  the  tonsured  scalp 

[  1^5  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE    BOOK 

To  the  sandaled  sole  of  him,  my  son  and  Christ's, 
Instead  of  touching  us  by  finger-tip 
As  you  assert,  and  pressing  up  so  close 
Only  to  set  a  blood-smutch  on  our  robe,  — 
I  and  Christ  would  renounce  all  right  in  him. 
Am  I  not  Pope,  and  presently  to  die. 
And  busied  how  io  render  my  account. 
And  shall  I  wait  a  day  ere  I  decide 
On  doing  or  not  doing  justice  here  ? 
Cut  off  his  head  to-morrow  by  this  time, 
Hang  up  his  four  mates,  two  on  either  hand. 
And  end  one  business  more  !  " 

So  said,  so  done  — 
Eather  so  writ,  for  the  old  Pope  bade  this, 
I  find,  with  his  particular  chirograph. 
His  own  no  such  infirm  hand,  Friday  night ; 
And  next  day,  February  Twenty  Two, 
Since  our  salvation  Sixteen  Ninety  Eight, 
—  Not  at  the  proper  head-and-hanging-place 
On  bridge-foot  close  by  Castle  Angelo, 
Where  custom  somewhat  staled  the  spectacle, 
('T  was  not  so  well  i'  the  way  of  Eome,  beside. 
The  noble  Rome,  the  Eome  of  G  uido's  rank) 
But  at  the  city's  newer  gayer  end, — 
The  cavalcading  promenading  place 
Beside  the  gate  and  opposite  the  church 
Under  the  Pincian  gardens  green  with  Spring, 
'Neath  the  obelisk  'twixt  the  fountains  in  the  Square, 

[  I'^C  ] 


o 


ri  a 
B  S 

""'    o 

CO 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Did  Guido  and  his  fellows  find  their  fate. 

All  Eome  for  witness,  and  —  mj  writer  adds  — 

Eemoustrant  in  its  universal  grief, 

Since  Guido  had  the  suffrage  of  all  Eome. 

This  is  the  bookful ;  thus  far  take  the  truth, 
The  untempered  gold,  the  fact  untampered  with, 
The  mere  ring-metal  ere  the  ring  be  made  ! 
And  what  has  hitherto  come  of  it  ?     Who  preserves 
The  memory  of  this  Guido,  and  his  wife 
Pompilia,  more  than  Ademollo's  name, 
The  etcher  of  those  prints,  two  crazie  each. 
Saved  by  a  stone  from  snowhig  broad  the  Square 
With  scenic  backgrounds  ?     Was  this  truth  of  force  ? 
Able  to  take  its  own  part  as  truth  should, 
Sufficient,  self-sustaining  ?     Wliy,  if  so  — 
Yonder  ''s  a  fire,  into  it  goes  my  book. 
As  who  shall  say  me  nay,  and  what  the  loss  ? 
You  know  the  tale  already  :  I  may  ask, 
Eather  than  think  to  tell  you,  more  thereof,  — 
Ask  you  not  merely  who  were  he  and  she. 
Husband  and  wife,  what  manner  of  mankind. 
But  how  you  hold  concerning  this  and  that 
Other  yet-unnamed  actor  in  the  piece. 
The  young  frank  handsome  courtly  Canon,  now, 
The  priest,  declared  the  lover  of  the  wife. 
He  who,  no  question,  did  elope  with  her. 
For  certain  bring  the  tragedy  about, 
Giuseppe  Caponsacchi ;  —  his  strange  course 
12  [  177  1 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

V  the  matter,  was  it  right  or  wrong  or  both  ? 

Then  the  old  couple,  slaughtered  with  the  wiie 

By  the  husband  as  accomplices  in  crime, 

Those  Comparini,  Pietro  and  his  spouse,  — 

What  say  you  to  the  right  or  wrong  of  that. 

When,  at  a  known  name  whispered  through  the  door 

Of  a  lone  villa  on  a  Christmas  night. 

It  opened  that  the  joyous  hearts  inside 

Might  welcome  as  it  were  an  angel-guest 

Come  in  Christ^s  name  to  knock  and  enter,  sup 

And  satisfy  the  loving  ones  he  saved ; 

And  so  did  welcome  devils  and  their  death  ? 

I  have  been  silent  on  that  circumstance 

Although  the  couple  passed  for  close  of  kin 

To  wife  and  husband,  were  by  some  accounts 

Pompilia's  very  parents  :  you  know  best. 

Also  tliat  infant  the  great  joy  was  for. 

That  Gaetano,  the  wife's  two-weeks^  babe, 

The  husband^'s  first-born  child,  his  son  and  heir. 

Whose  birth  and  being  turned  his  night  to  day  — 

Why  must  the  father  kill  the  mother  thus 

Because  she  bore  his  son  and  saved  himself  ? 

Well,  British  Public,  ye  who  like  me  not, 
(God  love  you !)  and  will  have  your  proper  laugh 
At  the  dark  question,  laugh  it !     I  laugh  first. 
Truth  must  prevail,  the  proverb  vows ;  and  truth 
—  Here  is  it  all  i'  the  book  at  last,  as  first 
There  it  was  all  i'  the  heads  and  hearts  of  Eome 

[  1^8  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Gentle  and  simple,  never  to  fall  nor  fade 
Nor  be  forgotten.     Yet,  a  little  while. 
The  passage  of  a  century  or  so, 
Decads  thrice  five,  and  here  's  time  paid  his  tax. 
Oblivion  gone  home  with  her  harvesting. 
And  all  left  smooth  again  as  scythe  could  shave. 
Far  from  beginning  with  you  London  folk, 
I  took  my  book  to  Eome  first,  tried  truth's  power 
On  likely  people.     "  Have  you  met  such  names  ? 
Is  a  tradition  extant  of  such  facts  ? 
Your  law-courts  stand,  your  records  frown  a-row : 
What  if  I  rove  and  rummage  1'^     "  —  Why,  you  ''11  waste 
Your  pains  and  end  as  wise  as  you  began  !  '^ 
Everyone  snickered  :  "  names  and  facts  thus  old 
Are  newer  much  than  Europe  news  we  find 
Down  in  to-day's  Diario.     Records,  quotha  ? 
Why,  the  French  burned  them,  what  else  do  the  French  ? 
The  rap-and-rending  nation  !     And  it  tells 
Against  the  Church,  no  doubt,  —  another  gird 
At  the  Temporality,  your  Trial,  of  course  ? '' 
"  —  Quite  otherwise  this  time,^''  submitted  I ; 
"  Clean  for  the  Church  and  dead  against  the  world. 
The  flesh  and  the  devil,  does  it  tell  for  once." 
"  —  The  rarer  and  the  happier !     All  the  same. 
Content  you  with  your  treasure  of  a  book, 
And  waive  what 's  wanting  !     Take  a  friend^s  advice  ! 
It 's  not  the  custom  of  the  country.     Mend 
Your  ways  indeed  and  we  may  stretch  a  point : 
Go  get  you  manned  by  Manning  and  new-manned 

[  1^9  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

By  Newman  and,  mayhap,  wise-manned  to  boot 
By  Wiseman,  and  we  ''11  see  or  else  we  won't ! 
Thanks  meantime  for  the  story,  long  and  strong, 
A  pretty  piece  of  narrative  enough, 
Which  scarce  ought  so  to  drop  out,  one  would  think, 
From  the  more  curious  annals  of  our  kind. 
Do  you  tell  the  story,  now,  in  off-hand  style, 
Straight  from  the  book  ?     Or  simply  here  and  there, 
(The  while  you  vault  it  through  the  loose  and  large) 
Hang  to  a  hint  ?     Or  is  there  book  at  all. 
And  don^t  you  deal  in  poetry,  make-believe, 
And  the  white  lies  it  sounds  like  ? '' 

Yes  and  no ! 
From  the  book,  yes ;  thence  bit  by  bit  I  dug 
The  lingot  truth,  that  memorable  day, 
Assayed  and  knew  my  piecemeal  gain  was  gold,  — 
Yes ;    but  from  something  else  surpassing  that. 
Something  of  mine  whicli,  mixed  up  with  the  mass. 
Made  it  bear  hammer  and  be  firm  to  file. 
Fancy  with  fact  is  just  one  fact  Ihe  more ; 
To-wit,  that  fancy  has  informed,  Irnnspicrced, 
Thridded  and  so  thrown  fast  the  facts  else  free, 
As  right  through  ring  and  ring  runs  the  djereed 
And  binds  the  loose,  one  bar  without  a  break. 
I  fused  my  live  soul  and  that  inert  stufl', 
ikfore  attempting  smithcraft,  on  the  night 
After  the  day  when  —  truth  thus  grasped  and  gained 
The  book  was  shut  and  done  with  and  laid  by 

[  i«o  ] 


in 


2  ?3 

=  o 

^  tS! 

^  I— I 


2  c 

3  o 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

On  the  cream-colored  massive  agate^  broad 
'Neath  the  twin  cherubs  in  the  tarnished  frame 
O'  the  mirror,  tall  thence  to  the  ceiling-top. 
And  from  tlie  reading,  and  that  slab  I  leant 
Mj  elbow  on,  the  while  I  read  and  read, 
I  turned,  to  free  myself  and  find  the  world. 
And  stepped  out  on  the  narrow  terrace,  built 
Over  the  street  and  opposite  the  church. 
And  paced  its  lozenge-brickwork  sprinkled  cool ; 
Because  Felice-church-side  stretched,  a-glow 
Through  each  square  window  fringed  for  festival, 
Whence  came  the  clear  voice  of  the  cloistered  ones 
Chanting  a  chant  made  for  midsummer  nights  — 
I  know  not  what  particular  praise  of  God, 
It  always  came  and  went  with.  June.     Beneath 
V  the  street,  quick  shown  by  openings  of  the  sky 
When  flame  fell  silently  from  cloud  to  cloud, 
Eicher  than  that  gold  snow  Jove  rained  on  Ehodes, 
The  townsmen  walked  by  twos  and  threes,  and  talked, 
Drinking  the  blackness  in  default  of  air  — 
A  busy  human  sense  beneath  my  feet : 
While  in  and  out  the  terrace-plants,  and  round 
One  branch  of  tall  datura,  w^axed  and  weaned 
The  lamp-fly  lured  there,  wanting  the  white  flower. 
Over  the  roof  o"*  the  liglited  church  I  looked 
A  bowshot  to  the  street's  end,  north  away 
Out  of  the  Eoman  gate  to  the  Roman  road 
By  the  river,  till  I  felt  the  Apennine. 
And  there  w'ould  lie  Arezzo,  the  man's  town, 
[181] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK. 

The  woman's  trap  and  cage  and  torture-place. 
Also  the  stage  where  the  priest  played  his  part, 
A  spectacle  for  angels,  —  ay,  indeed. 
There  lay  Arezzo  !     Farther  then  I  fared, 
Feeling  my  way  on  through  the  hot  and  dense, 
Eomeward,  until  I  found  the  wayside  inn 
By  Castelnuovo's  few  mean  hut-like  homes 
Huddled  together  on  the  hill-foot  bleak. 
Bare,  broken  only  by  that  tree  or  two 
Against  the  sudden  bloody  splendor  poured 
Cursewise  in  day^s  departure  by  the  sun 
O^er  the  low  house-roof  of  that  squalid  inn 
Where  they  three,  for  the  first  time  and  the  last, 
Husband  and  wife  and  priest,  met  face  to  face. 
Whence  I  went  on  again,  the  end  was  near. 
Step  by  step,  missing  none  and  marking  all, 
Till  Rome  itself,  the  ghastly  goal,  I  reached. 
Why,  all  the  while,  —  how  could  it  otherwise  ?  — 
The  life  in  me  abolished  the  death  of  things, 
Deep  calling  unto  deep  :  as  then  and  there 
Acted  itself  over  agahi  once  more 
The  tragic  piece.     I  saw  witli  my  own  eyes 
In  Florence  as  I  trod  the  terrace,  breathed 
The  beauty  and  the  fearfulness  of  night, 
How  it  had  run,  tliis  rouiul  from  Kome  to  Rome  — 
Because,  you  are  to  know,  Ihiy  lived  at  Rome, 
Pompilia's  parents,  as  they  tliought  themselves. 
Two  poor  ignoble  hearts  who  did  their  best 
Part  God's  way,  part  the  other  way  than  God's, 
[  182  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

To  someliow  make  a  shift  and  scramble  through 
The  world^s  mud,  careless  if  it  splashed  and  spoiled. 
Provided  they  might  so  hold  high,  keep  clean 
Their  chikVs  soul,  one  soul  white  enough  for  three, 
And  lift  it  to  whatever  star  should  stoop. 
What  possible  sphere  of  purer  life  than  theirs 
Should  come  in  aid  of  whiteness  hard  to  save. 
I  saw  the  star  stoop,  that  they  strained  to  touch. 
And  did  touch  and  depose  their  treasure  on, 
As  Guido  Franceschini  took  away 
Pompilia  to  be  his  for  evermore, 
AVhile  they  sang  "  Now  let  us  depart  in  peace. 
Having  beheld  thy  glory,  Guido's  wife  ! " 
I  saw  the  star  supposed,  but  fog  o^  the  fen. 
Gilded  star-fashion  by  a  glint  from  hell; 
Having  been  heaved  up,  haled  on  its  gross  way, 
By  hands  unguessed  before,  invisible  help 
From  a  dark  brotherhood,  and  specially 
Two  obscure  goblin  creatures,  fox-faced  this, 
Cat-clawed  the  other,  called  his  next  of  kin 
By  Guido  the  main  monster,  —  cloaked  and  caped. 
Making  as  they  were  priests,  to  mock  God  more,  — 
Abate  Paul,  Canon  Girolamo. 
These  who  had  rolled  the  starlike  pest  to  Rome 
And  stationed  it  to  suck  up  and  absorb 
The  sweetness  of  Pompilia,  rolled  again 
That  bloated  bubble,  with  her  soul  inside. 
Back  to  Arezzo  and  a  palace  there  — 
Or  say,  a  fissure  in  the  honest  earth 

[  183  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Whence  long  ago  had  curled  the  vapor  first. 

Blown  big  by  nether  fires  to  appal  day  : 

It  touched  home,,  broke,  and  blasted  far  and  wide. 

I  saw  the  cheated  couple  find  the  cheat 

And  guess  what  foul  rite  they  were  captured  for,  — 

Too  fain  to  follow  over  hill  and  dale 

That  child  of  theirs  caught  up  thus  in  the  cloud 

And  carried  by  the  Prince  o'  the  Power  of  the  Air 

Whither  he  would,  to  wilderness  or  sea. 

I  saw  them,  in  the  potency  of  fear. 

Break  somehow  through  the  satyr-family 

(For  a  gray  mother  with  a  monkey-mien, 

Mopping  and  mowing,  was  apparent  too, 

As,  confident  of  capture,  all  took  hands 

And  danced  about  the  captives  in  a  ring) 

—  Saw  them  break  through,  breathe  safe,  at  Eome  again, 

Saved  by  the  selfish  instinct,  losing  so 

Their  loved  one  left  with  haters.     These  I  saw. 

In  recrudescency  of  baffled  hate. 

Prepare  to  Avring  the  uttermost  revenge 

From  body  and  soul  thus  left  them  :  all  was  sure. 

Fire  laid  and  caldron  set,  the  obscene  ring  traced. 

The  victim  stripped  and  prostrate:  wliat  of  God? 

The  cleaving  of  a  cloud,  a  cry,  a  crash, 

Quenched  lay  llieir  caldron,  cowered  i'  the  dust  the  crew. 

As,  in  a  glory  of  armor  like  Saint  George, 

Out  again  sprang  the  young  good  beauteous  priest 

Bearing  away  the  lady  in  his  arms, 

Saved  for  a  splendid  minute  and  no  more 

[  1«4  J 


o 


H 


-c  O 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

For,  whom  i^  the  path  did  that  priest  come  upon, 
He  and  the  poor  lost  lady  borne  so  brave, 
—  Checking  the  song  of  praise  in  me,  had  else 
Swelled  to  the  full  for  God^s  will  done  on  earth  — 
Whom  but  a  dusk  misfeatured  messenger. 
No  other  than  the  angel  of  this  life, 
Whose  care  is  lest  men  see  too  much  at  once. 
He  made  the  sign,  such  God  glimpse  must  suffice. 
Nor  prejudice  the  Prince  o^  the  Power  of  the  Air, 
Whose  ministration  piles  us  overhead 
What  we  call,  first,  earth's  roof  and,  last,  heaven's  floor. 
Now  grate  o'  the  trap,  then  outlet  of  the  cage : 
So  took  the  lady,  left  the  priest  alone. 
And  once  more  canopied  the  world  with  black. 
But  through  the  blackness  I  saw  Rome  again. 
And  where  a  solitary  villa  stood 
In  a  lone  garden-quarter  :  it  was  eve, 
The  second  of  the  year,  and  oh  so  cold ! 
Ever  and  anon  there  flittered  through  the  air 
A  snow-flake,  and  a  scanty  couch  of  snow 
Crusted  the  grass-walk  and  the  garden-mould. 
All  was  grave,  silent,  sinister,  —  when,  ha  ? 
Glimmeringly  did  a  pack  of  were-wolves  pad 
The  snow,  those  flames  were  Guido's  eyes  in  front, 
And  all  five  found  and  footed  it,  the  track. 
To  where  a  threshold-streak  of  warmth  and  light 
Betrayed  the  villa-door  with  life  inside. 
While  an  inch  outside  were  those  blood-bright  eyes. 
And  black  lips  wrinkling  o'er  the  flash  of  teeth, 

[  185  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

And  tongues  that  lolled  —  0  God  that  madest  man  ! 

Tliey  parleyed  in  their  language.     Then  one  whined  — 

That  was  the  policy  and  master-stroke  — 

Deep  in  his  throat  whispered  what  seemed  a  name  — 

"  Open  to  Caponsacchi  ! ''  G  uido  cried  : 

''  Gabriel !  "  cried  Lucifer  at  Eden-gate. 

Wide  as  a  heart,  opened  the  door  at  once, 

ShoAviiig  the  joyous  couple,  and  their  child 

The  two-weeks'  mother,  to  the  wolves,  the  wolves 

To  them.     Close  eyes  !     And  when  the  corpses  lay 

Stark-stretched,    and  those   the    wolves,    their  wolf-work 

done. 
Were  safe-embosomed  by  the  night  again, 
I  knew  a  necessary  change  in  things; 
As  when  the  worst  watch  of  the  night  gives  way, 
And  there  comes  duly,  to  take  cognizance. 
The  scrutinizing  eye-point  of  some  star  — 
And  wlio  despairs  of  a  new  daybreak  now  ? 
Lo,  the  first  ray  protruded  on  those  five  ! 
It  reached  them,  and  each  felon  writhed  transfixed. 
Awhile  they  palpitated  on  the  spear 
Motionless  over  Tophet :  stand  or  fall  ? 
"  I  say,  the  spear  should  fall  —  should  stand,  I  say  !  " 
Cried  the  world  come  to  judgment,  granting  grace 
Or  dealing  doom  according  to  world's  wont, 
Those  world's-bystanders  grou])ed  on  Home's  cross-road 
At  prick  and  summons  of  tlie  })rimal  curse 
Which  bids  man  love  as  well  as  make  a  lie. 
There  prattled  they,  discoursed  the  right  and  wrong, 

I   18C  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Turned  wrong  to   rights  proved  wolves  sheep  and  sheep 

wolves, 
So  that  you  scarce  distinguished  fell  from  fleece ; 
Till  out  spoke  a  great  guardian  of  the  fold. 
Stood  up,  put  forth  his  hand  that  held  the  crook. 
And  motioned  that  the  arrested  point  decline : 
Horribly  oft',  the  wriggling  dead-weight  reeled. 
Rushed  to  the  bottom  and  lay  ruined  there. 
Though  still  at  the  pita's  mouth,  despite  the  smoke 
O'  the  burning,  tarriers  turned  again  to  talk 
And  trim  the  balance,  and  detect  at  least 
A  touch  of  wolf  in  what  showed  whitest  sheep, 
A  cross  of  sheep  redeeming  the  whole  wolf,  — 
Yex  truth  a  little  longer  :  —  less  and  less. 
Because  years  came  and  went,  and  more  and  more 
Brought  new  lies  w^ith  them  to  be  loved  in  turn. 
Till  all  at  once  the  memory  of  the  thing,  — 
The  fact  that,  wolves  or  sheep,  such  creatures  were,  — 
Which  hitherto,  however  men  supposed. 
Had  somehow  plain  and  pillar-like  prevailed 
T  the  midst  of  them,  indisputably  fact. 
Granite,  time''s  tooth  should  grate  against,  not  graze,  — 
Why,  this  proved  sandstone,  friable,  fast  to  fly 
And  give  its  grain  away  at  wish  o'  the  wind. 
Ever  and  ever  more  diminutive, 
Base  gone,  shaft  lost,  only  entablature. 
Dwindled  into  no  bigger  than  a  book. 
Lay  of  the  column ;  and  that  little,  left 
By  the  roadside  ^mid  the  ordure,  shards  and  weeds. 

t  187] 


THE   RING    AND  THE   BOOK 

Until  I  liaply,  wandering  that  lone  way, 
Kicked  it  up,  turned  it  over,  and  recognized. 
For  all  the  crumblement,  this  abacus. 
This  square  old  yellow  book,  could  calculate 
By  this  the  lost  proportions  of  the  style. 

This  was  it  from,  my  fancy  with  those  facts, 

I  used  to  tell  the  tale,  turned  gay  to  grave. 

But  lacked  a  listener  seldom  ;  such  alloy. 

Such  substance  of  me  interfused  the  gold 

Which,  Avrought  into  a  shapely  ring  therewith, 

Hammered  and  filed,  fingered  and  favored,  last 

Lay  ready  for  the  renovating  wash 

O'  the  water.     ''  How  much  of  the  tale  was  true  ?  " 

I  disappeared ;  the  book  grew  all  in  all ; 

The  lawyers'  pleadings  swelled  back  to  their  size,  — 

Doubled  in  two,  the  crease  upon  them  yet, 

For  more  commodity  of  carriage,  see !  — 

And  these  are  letters,  veritable  sheets 

That  brought  posthaste  the  news  to  Florence,  writ 

At  Rome  the  day  Count  Guido  died,  we  find, 

To  stay  the  craving  of  a  client  there. 

Who  bound  the  same  and  so  produced  my  book. 

Lovers  of  dead  truth,  did  ye  fare  the  worse  ? 

Lovers  of  live  truth,  found  ye  false  my  tale  ? 

Well,  now ;  there 's  nothing  in  nor  out  o'  the  world 
Good  except  truth  :  yet  this,  the  something  else, 
What 's  this  then,  which  proves  good  yet  seems  untrue 

[  188  ] 


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<"«■ 

THE   RING    AND   THE   BOOK 

This  that  I  mixed  with  truth,  motions  of  mine 

That  quickened,  made  the  inertness  malleolable 

O*  the  gold  was  not  mine,  —  what''s  3^onr  name  for  this? 

Are  means  to  the  end,  themselves  in  part  the  end  ? 

Is  fiction  which  makes  fact  alive,  fact  too  ? 

The  somehow  may  be  thishow. 

I  find  first 
Writ  down  for  very  A  B  C  of  fact, 
"  In  the  beginning  God  made  heaven  and  earth  " ; 
Erom  which,  no  matter  with  what  lisp,  I  spell 
And  speak  you  out  a  consequence  —  that  man, 
Man,  —  as  befits  the  made,  the  inferior  thing,  — 
Purposed,  since  made,  to  grow,  not  make  in  turn. 
Yet  forced  to  try  and  make,  else  fail  to  grow,  — 
Formed  to  rise,  reach  at,  if  not  grasp  and  gain 
The  good  beyond  liim,  —  which  attempt  is  growth,  — 
Repeats  God's  process  in  man's  due  degree. 
Attaining  man's  proportionate  result,  — 
Creates,  no,  but  resuscitates,  perhaps. 
Inalienable,  the  arch-prerogative 
Which  turns  thought,  act  —  conceives,  expresses  too  ! 
No  less,  man,  bounded,  yearning  to  be  free, 
May  so  project  his  surplusage  of  soul 
In  search  of  body,  so  add  self  to  self 
By  owning  what  lay  ownerless  before,  — 
So  find,  so  fill  full,  so  appropriate  forms  — 
That,  althougli  nothing  which  liad  never  life 
Shall  get  life  from  him,  be,  not  having  been. 
Yet,  something  dead  may  get  to  live  again, 

[  189  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Something  with  too  much  life  or  not  enough. 

Which,  either  way  imperfect,  ended  once : 

An  end  whereat  man's  impulse  intervenes. 

Makes  new  beginning,  starts  the  dead  alive, 

Completes  the  incomplete  and  saves  the  thing. 

Man^s  breath  were  vain  to  liglit  a  virgin  wick,  — 

Half-burned-out,  all  but  quite-quenched  wicks  o"*  the  lamp 

Stationed  for  temple-service  on  this  earth, 

These  indeed  let  him  breathe  on  and  relume  ! 

For  such  man's  feat  is,  in  the  due  degree, 

—  Mimic  creation,  galvanism  for  life. 

But  still  a  glory  jjortioned  in  the  scale. 

Why  did  the  mage  say,  —  feeling  as  we  are  wont 

For  truth,  and  stopping  midway  short  of  truth. 

And  resting  on  a  lie,  —  "I  raise  a  ghost "  ? 

"  Because,^'  he  taught  adepts,  "  man  makes  not  man. 

Yet  by  a  special  gift,  an  art  of  arts. 

More  insight  and  more  outsight  and  much  more 

Will  to  use  both  of  these  than  boast  my  mates, 

I  can  detach  from  me,  commission  forth 

Half  of  my  soul ;  which  in  its  pilgrimage 

O'er  old  unwandered  waste  ways  of  the  world. 

May  chance  upon  some  fragment  of  a  whole. 

Rag  of  ticsh,  scrap  of  bone  in  dim  disuse. 

Smoking  flax  that  fed  fire  once :  prompt  therein 

I  enter,  spark-like,  put  old  powers  to  play, 

Pusli  lines  out  to  the  limit,  lead  forth  last 

(By  a  moonrise  througli  a  ruin  of  a  crypt) 

What  shall  b(;  mistily  seen,  murmuringly  heard, 

1  liw  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Mistakeiilj  felt :  then  write  my  name  with  Paust's  !  ^' 
Oh,  Eaust,  why  Faust  ?     Was  not  Elisha  once  ?  — 
Who  bade  them  lay  his  staff  on  a  corpse-face. 
There  was  no  voice,  no  hearing :  he  went  in 
Therefore,  and  shut  the  door  upon  them  twain. 
And  prayed  unto  the  Lord  :  and  he  w^ent  up 
And  lay  upon  the  corpse,  dead  on  the  couch. 
And  put  his  mouth  upon  its  mouth,  his  eyes 
Upon  its  eyes,  his  hands  upon  its  hands. 
And  stretched  him  on  the  flesh ;  the  flesh  waxed  warm 
And  he  returned,  walked  to  and  fro  the  house, 
And  went  up,  stretched  him  on  the  flesh  again. 
And  the  eyes  opened.     ''T  is  a  credible  feat 
With  the  right  man  and  way. 

Enough  of  me  ! 
The  Book  !     I  turn  its  medicinable  leaves 
In  London  now  till,  as  in  Florence  erst, 
A  spirit  laughs  and  leaps  through  every  limb. 
And  lights  my  eye,  and  lifts  me  by  the  hair. 
Letting  me  have  my  will  again  with  these 
—  How  title  I  the  dead  alive  once  more  ? 

Count  Guido  Franceschini  the  Aretine, 
Descended  of  an  ancient  house,  though  poor, 
A  beak-nosed  bushy-bearded  black-haired  lord, 
Lean,  pallid,  low  of  stature  yet  robust. 
Fifty  years  old,  —  having  four  years  ago 
Married  Pompilia  Comparini,  young, 
Good,  beautiful,  at  Bome,  where  she  was  born, 

[191  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

And  brought  her  to  Arezzo,  where  they  lived 

Unhappy  lives,  whatever  curse  the  cause,  — 

This  husband,  taking  four  accomplices, 

EoUowcd  this  wife  to  Eome,  wliere  she  was  fled 

From  their  Arezzo  to  find  peace  again. 

In  convoy,  eight  months  earlier,  of  a  ])riest, 

Aretine  also,  of  still  nobler  birth, 

Giuseppe  Caponsacchi,  —  caught  her  there 

Quiet  in  a  villa  on  a  Christmas  night. 

With  only  Pietro  and  Violante  by. 

Both  her  putative  parents ;  killed  the  three. 

Aged,  they  seventy  each,  and  she  seventeen. 

And,  two  weeks  since,  the  mother  of  his  babe 

First-born  and  heir  to  what  the  style  was  worth 

O'  the  Guido  who  determined,  dared  and  did 

This  deed  just  as  he  purposed  point  by  point. 

Then,  bent  upon  escape,  but  hotly  pressed. 

And  captured  with  his  co-mates  that  same  night. 

He,  brought  to  trial,  stood  on  this  defence  — 

Injury  to  his  honor  caused  the  act; 

And  since  his  wife  was  false,  (as  manifest 

By  tiiglit  from  home  in  such  companionsliip,) 

Death,  punislunent  deserved  of  the  false  wife 

And  faithless  parents  who  abetted  her 

I'  the  flight  aforesaid,  wronged  nor  God  nor  man. 

"  Nor  false  she,  nor  yet  faithless  they,"  replied 

The  accuser ;  ''  cloaked  and  masked  this  murder  glooms ; 

True  was  P()m])ilia,  loyal  too  the  pair; 

Out  of  the  man's  own  heart  a  monster  curled 

f  \m  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Which  —  crime  coiled  with  connivancy  at  crime  — 
His  victim's  breast,  he  tells  you,  hatched  and  reared ; 
Uncoil  we  and  stretch  stark  the  worm  of  hell !  ^' 
A  month  the  trial  swayed  this  way  and  that 
Ere  judgment  settled  down  on  Guidons  guilt ; 
Then  was  the  Pope,  that  good  Twelfth  Innocent, 
Appealed  to  :  who  well  weighed  what  went  before, 
Affirmed  the  guilt  and  gave  the  guilty  doom. 

Let  this  old  woe  step  on  the  stage  again ! 

Act  itself  o'er  anew  for  men  to  judge, 

Not  by  the  very  sense  and  sight  indeed  — 

(Which  take  at  best  imperfect  cognizance. 

Since,  how  heart  moves  brain,  and  how  both  move  hand, 

What  mortal  ever  in  entirety  saw  ?) 

—  No  dose  of  purer  truth  than  man  digests. 

But  truth  with  falsehood,  milk  that  feeds  him  now, 

Not  strong  meat  he  may  get  to  bear  some  day  — 

To-wit,  by  voices  we  call  evidence. 

Uproar  in  the  echo,  live  fact  deadened  down. 

Talked  over,  bruited  abroad,  whispered  away. 

Yet  helping  us  to  all  we  seem  to  hear  : 

For  how  else  know  we  save  by  worth  of  word  ? 

Here  are  the  voices  presently  shall  sound 
In  due  succession.     First,  the  world's  outcry 
Around  the  rush  and  ripple  of  any  fact 
Fallen  stonewise,  plumb  on  the  smooth  face  of  things; 
The  world's  guess   as  it  crowds  the  bank  o'  the  pool. 
13  [  193  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE  BOOK 

At  what  were  figure  and  substance,  by  their  splash : 
Then,  by  vibrations  in  the  general  mind, 
At  depth  of  deed  already  out  of  reach. 
This  threefold  murder  of  the  day  before,  — 
Say,  Half-Rome^s  feel  after  the  vanished  truth  ; 
Honest  enough,  as  the  way  is :  all  the  same, 
Harboring  in  the  centre  of  its  sense 
A  hidden  germ  of  failure,  shy  but  sure, 
To  neutralize  that  honesty  and  leave 
That  feel  for  truth  at  fault,  as  the  way  is  too. 
Some  prepossession  such  as  starts  amiss. 
By  but  a  hair^s  breadth  at  the  shoulder-blade. 
The  arm  o^  the  feeler,  dip  he  ne^er  so  bold ; 
So  leads  arm  waveringly,  lets  fall  wide 
0'  the  mark  its  finger,  sent  to  find  and  fix 
Truth  at  the  bottom,  that  deceptive  speck. 
With  this  Half-Kome,  —  the  source  of  swerving,  call 
Over-belief  in  Guidon's  right  and  wrong 
Eather  than  in  Pompilia's  wrong  and  right : 
Who  shall  say  how,  who  shall  say  why  ?     ^T  is  there  — 
The  instinctive  theorizing  whence  a  fact 
Looks  to  the  eye  as  the  eye  likes  the  look. 
Gossip  in  a  public  place,  a  sample-speech. 
Some  worthy,  with  his  previous  hint  to  find 
A  husband^s  side  the  safer,  and  no  whit 
Aware  lie  is  not  ^acus  the  while,  — 
How  such  an  one  supposes  and  states  fact 
To  whosoever  of  a  multitude 
Will  listen,  and  perhaps  prolong  thereby 

[  194  ] 


hj 


E    O 
7^    1-^ 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

The  not-unpleasant  flutter  at  the  breast. 

Born  of  a  certain  spectacle  shut  in 

By  the  church  Lorenzo  opposite.     So,  they  lounge 

Midway  the  mouth  o^  the  street,  on  Corso  side, 

^Twixt  palace  Fiano  and  palace  Ruspoli, 

Linger  and  listen ;  keeping  clear  o'  the  crowd. 

Yet  wishful  one  could  lend  that  crowd  one^s  eyes, 

(So  universal  is  its  plague  of  squint) 

And  make  hearts  beat  our  time  that  flutter  false : 

—  All  for  the  trutVs  sake,  mere  truth,  nothing  else ! 

How  Half-Eome  found  for  Guido  much  excuse. 

Next,  from  Eome's  other  half,  the  opposite  feel 
For  truth  with  a  like  swerve,  like  unsuccess,  — 
Or  if  success,  by  no  skill  but  more  luck 
This  time,  through  siding  rather  with  the  wife. 
Because  a  fancy-fit  inclined  that  way, 
Than  with  the  husband.     One  wears  drab,  one  pink ; 
Who  wears  pink,  ask  him  "  "Which  shall  win  the  race, 
Of  coupled  runners  like  as  egg  and  egg  ?  " 
"  —  Why,  if  I  must  choose,  he  with  the  pink  scarf. ''' 
Doubtless  for  some  such  reason  choice  fell  here 
A  piece  of  public  talk  to  correspond 
At  the  next  stage  of  the  story ;  just  a  day 
Let  pass  and  we^  day  brings  the  proper  change. 
Another  sample-speech  i'  the  market-place 
O'  the  Barberini  by  the  Capucins ; 
Where  the  old  Triton,  at  his  fountain- sport, 
Bernini's  creature  plated  to  the  paps, 

[  195] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Puffs  up  steel  sleet  which  breaks  to  diamond  dust, 

A  spray  of  sparkles  snorted  from  his  conch. 

High  over  the  caritellas,  out  o'  the  way 

0^  the  motley  merchandizing  multitude. 

Our  murder  has  been  done  three  davs  02:0, 

The  frost  is  over  and  gone,  the  south  wind  laughs. 

And,  to  the  very  tiles  of  eacli  red  roof 

xV-sraoke  i'  the  sunshine,  Eome  lies  gold  and  glad : 

So,  listen  how,  to  the  other  half  of  Eome, 

Pompilia  seemed  a  saint  and  martyr  both ! 

Then,  yet  another  day  let  come  and  go. 
With  pause  prelusive  still  of  novelty. 
Hear  a  fresh  speaker !  —  neither  this  nor  that 
Half-Eome  aforesaid ;  something  bred  of  both  : 
One  and  one  breed  the  inevitable  three. 
Such  is  the  personage  harangues  you  next ; 
The  elaborated  product,  terfium  quid: 
Eome's  first  commotion  in  subsidence  gives 
The  curd  0^  the  cream,  flower  o'  the  wheat,  as  it  were. 
And  finer  sense  o'  the  city.     Is  this  plain  ? 
You  get  a  reasoned  statement  of  the  case. 
Eventual  verdict  of  the  curious  few 
Who  care  to  sift  a  business  to  the  bran 
Nor  coarsely  bolt  it  like  the  simpler  sort. 
Here,  after  ignorance,  instruction  speaks ; 
Here,  clarity  of  candor,  history's  soul. 
The  critical  mind,  in  short :  no  gossip-guess. 
What  the  superior  social  section  thinks, 

[  196] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

In  person  of  some  man  of  quality 

Who  —  breathing  musk  from  lace-work  and  brocade, 

His  solitaire  amid  the  flow  of  frill, 

Powdered  peruke  on  nose,  and  bag  at  back. 

And  cane  dependent  from  the  ruffled  wrist  — 

Harangues  in  silvery  and  selectest  phrase 

^Neath  waxlight  in  a  glorified  saloon 

Where  mirrors  multiply  the  girandole : 

Courting  the  approbation  of  no  mob. 

But  Eminence  This  and  All-Illustrious  That 

Who  take  snuff  softly,  range  in  well-bred  ring. 

Card-table-quitters  for  observance'  sake. 

Around  the  argument,  the  rational  word  — 

Still,  spite  its  weight  and  worth,  a  sample-speech. 

How  Quality  dissertated  on  the  case. 

So  much  for  Eome  and  rumor ;  smoke  comes  first : 

Once  let  smoke  rise  untroubled,  we  descry 

Clearlier    what    tongues    of    flame    may    spire    and 

spit 
To  eye  and  ear,  each  with  appropriate  tinge 
According  to  its  food,  or  pure  or  foul. 
The  actors,  no  mere  rumors  of  tlie  act. 
Intervene.     First  you  hear  Count  Guidons  voice, 
In  a  small  chamber  that  adjoins  the  court. 
Where  Governor  and  Judges,  summoned  thence, 
Tommati,  Venturini  and  the  rest, 
Find  the  accused  ripe  for  declaring  truth. 
Soft-cushioned  sits  he ;  yet  shifts  seat,  shirks  touch, 

[197] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

As,  with  a  twitchy  brow  and  wincing  lip 
And  cheek  that  changes  to  all  kinds  of  white. 
He  proffers  his  defence,  in  tones  snbdued 
Near  to  mock-mildness  now,  so  mournful  seems 
The  obtuser  sense  truth  fails  to  satisfy ; 
Now,  moved,  from  pathos  at  the  wrong  endured. 
To  passion ;  for  the  natural  man  is  roused 
At  fools  who  first  do  wrong  then  pour  the  blame 
Of  their  wrong-doing,  Satan-like,  on  Job. 
Also  his  tongue  at  times  is  hard  to  curb  ; 
Incisive,  nigh  satiric  bites  the  phrase, 
Eough-raw,  yet  somehow  claiming  privilege 

—  It  is  so  hard  for  shrewdness  to  admit 

Folly  means  no  harm  when  she  calls  black  white  ! 

—  Eruption  momentary  at  the  most, 
Modified  forthwith  by  a  fall  o'  the  fire. 

Sage  acquiescence  ;  for  the  world  's  the  world, 
And,  what  it  errs  in.  Judges  rectify : 
He  feels  lie  has  a  fist,  then  folds  his  arms 
Crosswise  and  makes  his  mind  up  to  be  meek. 
And  never  once  does  he  detach  his  eye 
From  tliose  ranged  there  to  slay  him  or  to  save. 
But  does  his  best  man's-service  for  himself. 
Despite,  —  what  twitches  brow  and  makes  lip  wince, 
His  limbs'  late  taste  of  what  was  called  the  Cord, 
Or  Vigil-torture  more  facetiously. 
Even  so ;  they  were  wont  to  tease  the  truth 
Out  of  loth  witness  (toying,  trifling  time) 
By  torture  :  ^t  was  a  trick,  a  vice  of  the  age, 

[  198  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Here,  there  and  every where_,  what  would  you  have  ? 
Eeligion  used  to  tell  Humanity 
She  gave  him  warrant  or  denied  him  course. 
And  since  the  course  was  much  to  his  own  mind, 
Of  pinching  flesh  and  pulling  bone  from  bone 
To  unhusk  truth  a-hiding  in  its  hulls. 
Nor  whisper  of  a  warning  stopped  the  way, 
He,  in  their  joint  behalf,  the  burly  slave. 
Bestirred  him,  mauled  and  maimed  all  recusants, 
While,  prim  in  place,  Religion  overlooked ; 
And  so  had  done  till  doomsday,  never  a  sign 
Nor  sound  of  interference  from  her  mouth. 
But  that  at  last  the  burly  slave  wiped  brow. 
Let  eye  give  notice  as  if  soul  were  there. 
Muttered  "  ''T  is  a  vile  trick,  foolish  more  than  vile. 
Should  have  been  counted  sin ;  I  make  it  so  : 
At  any  rate  no  more  of  it  for  me  — 
Nay,  for  I  break  the  torture-engine  thus !  " 
Then  did  Religion  start  up,  stare  amain, 
Look  round  for  help  and  see  none,  smile  and  say 
"  What,  broken  is  the  rack  ?     Well  done  of  thee  ! 
Did  I  forget  to  abrogate  its  use  ? 
Be  the  mistake  in  common  with  us  both  ! 
—  One  more  fault  our  blind  age  shall  answer  for, 
Down  in  my  book  denounced  though  it  must  be 
Somewhere.     Henceforth  find  truth  by  milder  means 
Ah  but,  Pteligion,  did  we  wait  for  thee 
To  ope  tlie  book,  that  serves  to  sit  upon. 
And  pick  such  place  out,  we  should  wait  indeed ! 

[199] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

That  is  all  history :  and  what  is  uot  now. 
Was  then^  defeudauts  found  it  to  their  cost. 
How  Guido,  after  being  tortured,  spoke. 

Also  hear  Caponsacchi  who  comes  next, 
Man  and  priest  —  could  you  comprehend  the  coil !  — 
In  days  when  that  was  rife  which  now  is  rare. 
How,  mingling  each  its  multifarious  wires. 
Now  heaven,  now  earth,  now  heaven  and  earth  at  once, 
Had  plucked  at  and  perplexed  their  puppet  here, 
Played  off  the  young  frank  personable  priest ; 
Sworn  fast  and  tonsured  plain  heaven's  celibate, 
And  yet  earth's  clear-accepted  servitor, 
A  courtly  spiritual  Cupid,  squire  of  dames 
By  law  of  love  and  mandate  of  the  mode. 
The  Church's  own,  or  why  parade  her  seal. 
Wherefore  that  chrism  and  consecrative  work  ? 
Yet  verily  the  world's,  or  why  go  badged 
A  prince  of  sonneteers  and  lutanists. 
Show  color  of  each  vanity  in  vogue 
Borne  with  decorum  due  on  blameless  breast  ? 
All  that  is  changed  now,  as  he  tells  the  court 
How  he  liad  played  the  part  excepted  at ; 
Tells  it,  moreover,  now  the  second  time : 
Since,  for  his  cause  of  scandal,  his  own  share 
I'  the  flight  from  home  and  husband  of  the  wife, 
He  has  been  censured,  punished  in  a  sort 
By  relegation,  —  exile,  we  should  say. 
To  a  short  distance  for  a  little  time,  — 

[200] 


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THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Whence  he  is  summoned  on  a  sudden  now^ 
Informed  that  she,  he  thought  to  save,  is  lost, 
And,  in  a  breath,  bidden  re-tell  his  tale. 
Since  the  first  telling  somehow  missed  effect. 
And  then  advise  in  the  matter.     There  stands  he. 
While  the  same  grim  black-panelled  chamber  blinks 
As  though  rubbed  shiny  with  the  sins  of  Eome 
Told  the  same  oak  for  ages  —  wave-washed  wall 
Against  which  sets  a  sea  of  wickedness. 
There,  where  you  yesterday  heard  Guido  speak, 
Speaks  Caponsacchi ;  and  there  face  him  too 
Tommati,  Yenturini  and  the  rest 
Who,  eight  months  earlier,  scarce  repressed  the  smile, 
Forewent  the  wink ;  waived  recognition  so 
Of  peccadillos  incident  to  youth. 
Especially  youth  high-born ;  for  youth  means  love. 
Vows  can^t  change  nature,  priests  are  only  men. 
And  love  likes  stratagem  and  subterfuge : 
Which  age,  that  once  was  youth,  should  recognize. 
May  blame,  but  needs  not  press  too  hard  upon. 
Here  sit  the  old  Judges  then,  but  with  no  grace 
Of  reverend  carriage,  magisterial  port. 
For  why?    The  accused  of  eight  months  since, — the  same 
Who  cut  the  conscious  figure  of  a  fool. 
Changed  countenance,  dropped  bashful  gaze  to  ground. 
While  hesitating  for  an  answer  then,  — 
Now  is  grown  judge  himself,  terrifies  now 
This,  now  the  other  culprit  called  a  judge. 
Whose  turn  it  is  to  stammer  and  look  strange, 

[  ^01   ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

As  he  speaks  rapidly,  aiigril}',  speech  that  smites : 

And  they  keep  silence,  bear  blow  after  blow. 

Because  the  seeming- solitary  man. 

Speaking  for  God,  may  have  an  audience  too, 

Invisible,  no  discreet  judge  provokes. 

How  the  priest  Caponsacchi  said  his  say. 

Then  a  soul  sighs  its  lowest  and  its  last 
After  the  loud  ones,  —  so  much  breath  remains 
Unused  by  the  four-days'-dying ;  for  she  lived 
Thus  long,  miraculously  long,  't  was  thought, 
Just  that  Pompilia  might  defend  herself. 
How,  while  the  hireling  and  the  alien  stoop. 
Comfort,  yet  question,  —  since  the  time  is  brief, 
And  folk,  allowably  inquisitive. 
Encircle  the  low  pallet  where  she  lies 
In  the  good  house  that  helps  the  poor  to  die,  — 
Pompilia  tells  the  story  of  her  life. 
For  friend  and  lover,  — leech  and  man  of  law 
Do  service;   busy  helpful  ministrants 
As  varied  in  their  calling  as  their  mind. 
Temper  and  age :  and  yet  from  all  of  these. 
About  the  white  bed  under  the  arched  roof, 
Is  somehow,  as  it  were,  evolved  a  one, — 
Small  separate  sympathies  combined  and  large. 
Nothings  that  were,  grown  something  very  much  : 
As  if  the  bystanders  gave  each  his  straw. 
All  he  had,  though  a  trifle  in  itself. 
Which,  plaited  all  together,  made  a  Cross 
[  202  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE  BOOK 

Fit  to  die  looking  on  and  praying  with, 
Just  as  well  as  if  ivory  or  gold. 
So,  to  the  common  kindliness  she  speaks, 
There  being  scarce  more  privacy  at  the  last 
For  mind  than  body :  but  she  is  used  to  bear, 
And  only  unused  to  the  brotherly  look. 
How  she  endeavored  to  explain  her  life. 


Then,  since  a  Trial  ensued,  a  touch  o^  the  same 
To  sober  us,  flustered  with  frothy  talk. 
And  teach  our  common  sense  its  helplessness. 
For  why  deal  simply  with  divining-rod. 
Scrape  where  we  fancy  secret  sources  flow, 
And  ignore  law,  the  recognized  machine. 
Elaborate  display  of  pipe  and  wheel 
Framed  to  unchoke,  pump  up  and  pour  apace 
Truth  till  a  flowery  foam  shall  wash  the  world? 
The  patent  truth-extracting  process,  — ha  ? 
Let  us  make  that  grave  mystery  turn  one  wheel. 
Give  you  a  single  grind  of  law  at  least ! 
One  orator,  of  two  on  either  side. 
Shall  teach  us  the  puissance  of  the  tongue 
—  That  is,  o'  the  pen  which  simulated  tongue 
On  paper  and  saved  all  except  the  sound 
Which  never  was.     Law's  speech  beside  law's  thought  ? 
That  were  too  stunning,  too  immense  an  odds : 
That  point  of  vantage  law  lets  nobly  pass. 
One  lawyer  shall  admit  us  to  behold 
The  manner  of  the  making  out  a  case, 

[  203  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Pirst  fashion  of  a  speech ;  the  chicl:  in  egg, 
The  masterpiece  law's  bosom  incubates. 
How  Don  Giacinto  of  the  Arcangeli, 
Called  Procurator  of  the  Poor  at  Eome, 
Now  advocate  for  Guido  and  his  mates,  — 
The  jolly  learned  man  of  middle  age, 
Cheek  and  jowl  all  in  laps  with  fat  and  law. 
Mirthful  as  mighty,  yet,  as  great  hearts  use. 
Despite  the  name  and  fame  that  tempt  our  flesh, 
Constant  to  that  devotion  of  the  hearth. 
Still  captive  in  those  dear  domestic  ties  !  — 
How  he,  —  having  a  cause  to  triumph  with. 
All  kind  of  interests  to  keep  intact. 
More  than  one  efficacious  personage 
To  tranquillize,  conciliate  and  secure. 
And  above  all,  public  anxiety 
To  quiet,  show  its  Guido  in  good  hands,  — 
Also,  as  if  such  burdens  were  too  light, 
A  certain  family-feast  to  claim  his  care. 
The  birthday-banciuet  for  the  only  son  — 
Paternity  at  smiling  strife  with  law  — 
How  he  brings  botli  to  buckle  in  one  bond; 

And,  thick  at  throat,  with  waterish  under-eye, 
Turns  to  his  task  and  settles  in  his  seat 
And  puts  his  utmost  means  in  practice  now : 
Wlieezes  out  law-phrase,  whiffles  Latin  forth. 
And,  just  as  though  roast  lamb  would  never  be. 
Makes  logic  levigate  the  big  crime  small : 
Bubs  palm  on  j^alm,  rakes  foot  with  itchy  foot, 
[  ^04  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Conceives  and  inchoates  the  argument, 
Sprinkling  each  flower  appropriate  to  the  time, 
—  Ovidian  quip  or  Ciceronian  crank, 
A-bubble  in  the  larynx  while  he  laughs. 
As  he  had  fritters  deep  down  frying  there. 
How  he  turns,  twists,  and  tries  the  oily  thing 
Shall  be  —  first  speech  for  Guido  'gainst  the  Fisc. 
Then  with  a  skip  as  it  were  from  heel  to  head, 
Leaving  yourselves  fill  up  the  middle  bulk 
O^  the  Trial,  reconstruct  its  shape  august. 
From  such  exordium  clap  we  to  the  close ; 
Give  you,  if  we  dare  wing  to  such  a  height. 
The  absolute  glory  in  some  full-grown  speech 
On  the  other  side,  some  finished  butterfly, 
Some  breathing  diamond-flake  with  leaf-gold  fans. 
That  takes  the  air,  no  trace  of  worm  it  was, 
Or  cabbage-bed  it  had  production  from. 
Giovambattista  o'  the  Bottini,  Fisc, 
Pompilia''s  patron  by  the  chance  of  the  hour. 
To-morrow  her  persecutor,  —  composite,  he. 
As  becomes  who  must  meet  such  various  calls  — 
Odds  of  age  joined  in  him  with  ends  of  youth. 
A  man  of  ready  smile  and  facile  tear. 
Improvised  hopes,  despairs  at  nod  and  beck, 
And  language  —  ah,  the  gift  of  eloquence ! 
Language  that  goes,  goes,  easy  as  a  glove. 
O'er  good  and  evil,  smoothens  both  to  one. 
Rashness  helps  caution  with  him,  fires  the  straw. 
In  free  enthusiastic  careless  fit, 
[  205  ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE  BOOK 

On  the  first  proper  pinnacle  of  rock 
Which  offers,  as  reward  for  all  that  zeal. 
To  lure  some  bark  to  founder  and  bring  gain : 
While  calm  sits  Caution,  rapt  with  heavenward  eye, 
A  true  confessor's  gaze,  amid  the  glare 
Beaconing  to  the  breaker,  death  and  hell. 
"  Well  done,  thou  good  and  faithful ! "  she  approves 
"  Hadst  thou  let  slip  a  faggot  to  the  beach, 
ITie  crew  might  surely  spy  thy  precipice 
And  save  their  boat ;  the  simple  and  the  slow 
Might  so,  forsooth,  forestall  the  wrecker's  fee! 
Let  the  next  crew  be  wise  and  hail  in  time !  " 
Just  so  compounded  is  the  outside  man. 
Blue  juvenile  pure  eye  and  pippin  cheek. 
And  brow  all  prematurely  soiled  and  seamed 
With  sudden  age,  bright  devastated  hair. 
Ah,  but  you  miss  the  very  tones  o'  the  voice. 
The  scrannel  pipe  that  screams  in  heights  of  head, 
As,  in  his  modest  studio,  all  alone. 
The  tall  wight  stands  a-tiptoe,  strives  and  strains. 
Both  eyes  shut,  like  the  cockerel  that  would  crow. 
Tries  to  his  own  self  amorously  o'er 
What  never  will  be  uttered  else  than  so  — 
Since  to  the  four  walls,  Forum  and  Mars'  Hill, 
Speaks  out  the  poesy  whicli,  penned,  turns  prose. 
Clavecinist  debarred  Iiis  instrument. 
He  yet  thrums  —  shirking  neither  turn  nor  trill. 
With  desperate  finger  on  dumb  table-edge  — 
The  sovereign  rondo,  shall  conclude  his  Suite, 

[  206  ] 


PORTRAIT  by  Raphael,  known  as 
"The  Veiled  Lady,"  in  the  Pitti 
Gallery.  Supposed  to  represent 
the  Fornariua,  whom  Raphael  loved. 


His  lady  of  the  sonnt,is. " 

—  One  Word  Morei  p.  2"17 


t             ^  O  *  *4?  <* 

It  C  I  C    I  t 

I    O  C  <  ^     r  r 

It  o  «  ^        - 


»    1    I      *    » 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Charm  an  imaginary  audience  there, 
From  old  Corelli  to  young  Haendel,  both 
F  the  flesh  at  Rome,  ere  he  perforce  go  print 
The  cold  black  score,  mere  music  for  the  mind  — 
The  last  speech  against  Guido  and  his  gang. 
With  special  end  to  prove  Pompilia  pure. 
How  the  Fisc  vindicates  Pompilia^s  fame. 

Then  comes  the  all  but  end,  the  ultimate 
Judgment  save  yours.     Pope  Innocent  the  Twelfth, 
Simple,  sagacious,  mild  yet  resolute. 
With  prudence,  probity  and  ■ —  what  beside 
From  the  other  world  he  feels  impress  at  times. 
Having  attained  to  fourscore  years  and  six,  — 
How,  when  the  court  found  Guido  and  the  rest 
Guilty,  but  law  supplied  a  subterfuge 
And  passed  the  final  sentence  to  the  Pope, 
He,  bringing  his  intelligence  to  bear 
This  last  time  on  what  ball  behoves  him  drop 
In  the  urn,  or  white  or  black,  does  drop  a  black. 
Send  five  souls  more  to  just  precede  his  own. 
Stand  him  in  stead  and  witness,  if  need  were, 
How  he  is  wont  to  do  God^s  work  on  earth. 
The  manner  of  his  sitting  out  the  dim 
Droop  of  a  sombre  February  day 
In  the  plain  closet  where  he  does  such  work. 
With,  from  all  Peter's  treasury,  one  stool. 
One  table  and  one  lathen  crucifix. 
There  sits  the  Pope,  his  thoughts  for  company ; 
[  207  ] 


X 


■  f ; 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Grave  but  not  sad,  —  nay,  something  like  a  cheer 

Leaves  the  lips  free  to  be  benevolent, 

Which,  all  day  long,  did  duty  firm  and  fast. 

A  cherishing  there  is  of  foot  and  knee, 

A  chafing  loose-skinned  large-veined  hand  witli  hand,  — 

What  steward  but  knows  when  stewardship  earns  its  wage, 

May  levy  praise,  anticipate  the  lord  ? 

He  reads,  notes,  lays  the  papers  down  at  last. 

Muses,  then  takes  a  turn  about  the  room ; 

Unclasps  a  huge  tome  in  an  antique  guise, 

Primitive  print  and  tongue  half  obsolete. 

That  stands  him  in  diurnal  stead ;  opes  page, 

Finds  place  where  falls  the  passage  to  be  conned 

According  to  an  order  long  in  use  : 

And,  as  he  comes  upon  the  evening's  chance, 
Starts  somewhat,  solemnizes  straight  his  smile. 

Then  reads  aloud  that  portion  first  to  last. 
And  at  the  end  lets  flow  his  own  thoughts  forth 
Likewise  aloud,  for  respite  and  relief. 
Till  by  the  dreary  relics  of  the  west 
Wan  through  the  half-moon  window,  all  his  light, 
He  bows  tlie  head  while  the  lips  move  in  prayer. 
Writes  some  three  brief  lines,  signs  and  seals  the  same, 
Tinkles  a  hand-bell,  bids  the  obsequious  Sir 
Who  puts  foot  presently  o'  the  closet-sill 
He  watched  outside  of,  bear  as  superscribed 
That  mandate  to  the  Governor  forthwith : 
Then  heaves  abroad  his  cares  in  one  good  sigh, 
Traverses  corridor  with  no  arm's  help, 

[  208  ] 


THE   RING    AND   THE   BOOK 

And  so  to  sup  as  a  clear  conscience  should. 
The  manner  of  the  judgment  of  the  Pope. 

Then  must  speak  Guido  yet  a  second  time^, 
Satan's  old  saw  being  apt  here  —  skin  for  skin, 
All  a  man  hath  that  will  he  give  for  life. 
While  life  was  graspable  and  gainable, 
And  bird-like  buzzed  her  wings  round  Guidons  brow. 
Not  much  truth  stiffened  out  the  web  of  words 
He  wove  to  catch  her :  when  away  she  flew 
And  death  came,  death's  breath  rivelled  up  the  lies. 
Left  bare  the  metal  thread,  the  fibre  fine 
Of  truth,  i'  the  spinning  :  the  true  words  shone  last. 
How  Guido,  to  another  purpose  quite. 
Speaks  and  despairs,  the  last  night  of  his  life, 
In  that  New  Prison  by  Castle  Angelo 
At  the  bridge  foot :  the  same  man,  another  voice. 
On  a  stone  bench  in  a  close  fetid  cell, 
Where  the  hot  vapor  of  an  agony. 
Struck  into  drops  on  the  cold  wall,  runs  down  — 
Horrible  worms  made  out  of  sweat  and  tears  — 
There  crouch,  well-nigh  to  the  knees  in  dungeon-straw, 
Lit  by  the  sole  lamp  suffered  for  their  sake. 
Two  awe-struck  figures,  this  a  Cardinal, 
That  an  Abate,  both  of  old  styled  friends 
O'  the  thing  part  man  part  monster  in  the  midst, 
So  changed  is  Pranceschini's  gentle  blood. 
The  tiger-cat  screams  now,  that  whined  before, 
That  pried  and  tried  and  trod  so  gingerly, 
14  [  209  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Till  in  its  silkiness  the  trap-teeth  joined; 
Then  jou  know  how  the  bristling  fury  foams. 
They  listen,  this  wrapped  in  his  folds  of  red, 
While  his  feet  fumble  for  the  filth  below ; 
The  other,  as  beseems  a  stouter  heart, 
Working  his  best  with  beads  and  cross  to  ban 
The  enemy  that  comes  in  like  a  flood 
Spite  of  the  standard  set  up,  verily 
And  in  no  trope  at  all,  against  him  there ; 
.For  at  the  prison-gate,  just  a  few  steps 
Outside,  already,  in  the  doubtful  dawn, 
Thither,  from  this  side  and  from  that,  slow  sweep 
And  settle  down  in  silence  solidly. 
Crow-wise,  the  frightful  Brotherhood  of  Death. 
Black-hatted  and  black-hooded  huddle  they. 
Black  rosaries  a-dangling  from  each  waist ; 
So  take  they  their  grim  station  at  the  door, 
Torches  lit,  skuU-and-cross-bones-banner  spread. 
And  that  gigantic  Christ  with  open  arms. 
Grounded.     Nor  lacks  there  aught  but  that  the  group 
Jkeak  forth,  intone  the  lamentable  psalm, 
"  Out  of  the  deeps.  Lord,  have  I  cried  to  thee  ! ''  — 
When  inside,  from  the  true  profound,  a  sign 
Shall  bear  intelligence  that  the  foe  is  foiled. 
Count  Guido  Franceschini  has  confessed. 
And  is  absolved  and  reconciled  with  God. 
Then  they,  intoning,  may  begin  their  march. 
Make  by  the  longest  way  for  the  People's  Square, 
Carry  the  criminal  to  his  crime's  award : 

[  ^10  ] 


Graiiduca,  in  the  Pitti 
Gallery. 


" Madonna 

that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision." 

—  One  Word  More,  p.  218 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

A  mob  to  cleave,  a  scaffolding  to  reach. 
Two  gallows  and  Mannaia  crowning  all. 
How  Guido  made  defence  a  second  time. 

Finally,  even  as  thus  by  step  and  step 

I  led  you  from  the  level  of  to-day 

Up  to  the  summit  of  so  long  ago, 

Here,  whence  I  point  you  the  wide  prospect  round  — 

Let  me,  by  like  steps,  slope  you  back  to  smooth, 

Land  you  on  mother-earth,  no  whit  the  worse. 

To  feed  o^  the  fat  o'  the  furrow :  free  to  dwell. 

Taste  our  time's  better  things  profusely  spread 

For  all  who  love  the  level,  corn  and  wine. 

Much  cattle  and  the  many-folded  fleece. 

Shall  not  my  friends  go  feast  again  on  sward, 

Though  cognizant  of  country  in  the  clouds 

Higher  than  wistful  eagle's  horny  eye 

Ever  unclosed  for,  'mid  ancestral  crags. 

When  morning  broke  and  Spring  was  back  once  more. 

And  he  died,  heaven,  save  by  his  heart,  unreached  ? 

Yet  heaven  my  fancy  lifts  to,  ladder-like,  — 

As  Jack  reached,  hoipen  of  his  beanstalk- rungs  ! 

A  novel  country  :  I  might  make  it  mine 
By  choosing  which  one  aspect  of  the  year 
Suited  mood  best,  and  putting  solely  that 
On  panel  somewhere  in  the  House  of  Fame, 
Landscaping  what  I  saved,  not  what  I  saw : 
—  Might  fix  you,  whether  frost  in  goblin-time 

[211   ] 


THE   RING   AND  THE   BOOK 

Startled  the  moon  with  his  abrupt  bright  laugh^ 

Or^  August's  hair  afloat  in  filmy  fire, 

She  fell,  arms  wide,  face  foremost  on  the  world, 

Swooned  there  and  so  singed  out  the  strength  of  things. 

Thus  were  abolished  Spring  and  Autumn  both. 

The  land  dwarfed  to  one  likeness  of  the  land. 

Life  cramped  corpse-fashion.     Rather  learn  and  love 

Each  facet-flash  of  the  revolving  year  !  — 

Eed,  green  and  blue  that  whirl  into  a  white. 

The  variance  now,  the  eventual  unity, 

Which  make  the  miracle.     See  it  for  yourselves, 

This  man's  act,  changeable  because  alive ! 

Action  now  shrouds,  nor  shows  the  informing  thought ; 

Man,  like  a  glass  ball  with  a  spark  a-top. 

Out  of  the  magic  fire  that  lurks  inside. 

Shows  one  tint  at  a  time  to  take  the  eye : 

Which,  let  a  finger  touch  the  silent  sleep. 

Shifted  a  hair's-breadth  shoots  you  dark  for  bright, 

Sufl'uses  bright  with  dark,  and  baffles  so 

Your  sentence  absolute  for  shine  or  shade. 

Once  set  such  orbs,  —  white  styled,  black  stigmatized,  - 

A- rolling,  see  them  once  on  the  other  side 

Your  good  men  and  your  bad  men  every  one 

From  Guido  Franccscliini  to  Guy  Faux, 

Oft  would  you  rub  your  eyes  and  change  your  names. 

Such,  British  Public,  ye  who  like  me  not, 
(God  love  you  !  )  —  whom  I  yet  have  labored  for, 
Perchance  more  careful  whoso  runs  may  read 

[  212  ] 


O 


?      S      5 


re  ^ 


t%     2     ~     5S 

■*    »;,      ^      •>. 


2"  ^ 

n     I— I 

O 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Than  erst  when  all,  it  seemed,  could  read  who  ran,  — 
Perchance  more  careless  whoso  reads  may  praise 
Than  late  when  he  who  praised  and  read  and  wrote 
Was  apt  to  find  himself  the  selfsame  me,  — 
Such  labor  had  such  issue,  so  I  wrought 
Tliis  arc,  by  furtherance  of  such  alloy. 
And  so,  by  one  spirt,  take  away  its  trace 
Till,  justifiably  golden,  rounds  my  ring. 

A  ring  without  a  posy,  and  that  ring  mine  ? 

0  lyric  Love,  half  angel  and  half  bird 
And  all  a  wonder  and  a  wild  desire,  — 
Boldest  of  hearts  that  ever  braved  the  sun, 
Took  sanctuary  within  the  holier  blue. 
And  sang  a  kindred  soul  out  to  his  face,  — 
Yet  human  at  the  red-ripe  of  the  heart  — 
When  the  first  summons  from  the  darkling  earth 
Eeached  thee  amid  thy  chambers,  blanched  their  blue, 
And  bared  them  of  the  glory  —  to  drop  down, 
To  toil  for  man,  to  suffer  or  to  die,  — 
This  is  the  same  voice  :  can  thy  soul  know  change  ? 
Hail  then,  and  hearken  from  the  realms  of  help ! 
Never  may  I  commence  my  song,  my  due 
To  God  who  best  taught  song  by  gift  of  thee. 
Except  with  bent  head  and  beseeching  hand  — 
That  still,  despite  the  distance  and  the  dark. 
What  was,  again  may  be ;  some  interchange 
Of  grace,  some  splendor  once  thy  very  thought, 

[  213  ] 


THE   RING   AND   THE   BOOK 

Some  benediction  anciently  th}^  smile : 

—  Never  conclude,  but  raising  hand  and  head 

Thither  where  eyes,  that  cannot  reach,  yet  yearn 

For  all  hope,  all  sustainment,  all  reward. 

Their  utmost  up  and  on,  —  so  blessing  back 

In  those  thy  realms  of  help,  that  heaven  thy  home, 

Some  whiteness  which,  I  judge,  thy  face  makes  proud, 

Some  wanness  where,  I  think,  thy  foot  may  fall ! 


[  214  ] 


ONE   WORD  MORE 


ONE   WOBD  3IORE'^ 

To  E.  B.  B. 

London,  September,  1855. 


THEEE  they  are,,  my  fifty  men  and  women 
Naming  me  the  fifty  poems  finished ! 
Take  them.  Love,  the  book  and  me  together : 
Where  the  heart  lies,  let  the  brain  lie  also. 

II 

Eafael  made  a  century  of  sonnets, 

Made  and  wrote  them  in  a  certain  volume 

Dinted  with  the  silver-pointed  pencil 

Else  he  only  used  to  draw  Madonnas  : 

These,  the  world  might  view  —  but  one,  the  volume. 

Who  that  one,  you  ask  ?     Your  heart  instructs  you. 

Did  she  live  and  love  it  all  her  lifetime  ? 

Did  she  drop,  his  lady  of  the  sonnets. 

Die,  and  let  it  drop  beside  her  pillow 

Where  it  lay  in  place  of  Rafael's  glory, 

1  Originally  appended  to  the  collection  of  fifty  poems  called  "  Men  and 
Women." 

[  217  ] 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

Eafael's  cheek  so  duteous  and  so  loving  — 
Cheek,  the  ^vorld  was  wont  to  hail  a  painter's, 
Rafael's  cheek,  her  love  had  turned  a  poet's  ? 

Ill 

You  and  I  would  rather  read  that  volume, 
(Taken  to  his  beating  bosom  by  it) 
Lean  and  list  the  bosom-beats  of  Rafael, 
Would  we  not  ?  than  wonder  at  Madonnas  — 
Her,  San  Sisto  names,  and  Her,  Foligno, 
Her,  that  visits  Florence  in  a  vision, 
Her,  that 's  left  with  lilies  in  the  Louvre  — 
Seen  by  us  and  all  the  world  in  circle. 

IV 

You  and  I  will  never  read  that  volume. 

Guido  Reni,  like  his  own  eye's  apple 

Guarded  long  the  treasure-book  and  loved  it. 

Guido  Reni  dying,  all  Bologna 

Cried,  and  tlie  world  cried  too,  ^'  Ours,  the  treasure  ! 

Suddenly,  as  rare  things  will,  it  vanished. 

V 

Dante  once  prepared  to  paint  an  angel : 
Whom  to  please?     You  whisper  "Beatrice." 
While  he  mused  and  traced  it  and  retraced  it, 
(Peradventure  witli  a  pen  corroded 
Still  by  drops  of  that  hot  ink  he  dipped  for. 
When,  his  left-hand  in*  the  hair  o'  the  wicked, 
[  218  ] 


rpORRE  AL  GALLO,  from  which 
many  of  Galileo's  astronomical 
observations  were  made. 


"  Galileo,  on  his  turret. " 

—  One  Word  More,  p.  224 


.,«:.; 


ONE   WORD  MORE 

Back  he  held  the  brow  and  pricked  its  stigma, 
Bit  into  the  live  man's  flesh  for  parchment, 
Loosed  him,  laughed  to  see  the  writing  rankle, 
Let  the  wretch  go  festering  through  Florence)  — 
Dante,  who  loved  well  because  he  hated. 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinders  loving, 
Dante  standing,  studying  his  angel,  — 
In  there  broke  the  folk  of  his  Inferno. 
Says  lie  —  "  Certain  people  of  importance  " 
(Such  he  gave  his  daily  dreadful  line  to) 
"  Entered  and  would  seize,  forsooth,  the  poet/' 
Says  the  poet  —  "Then  I  stopped  my  painting." 

VI 

You  and  I  would  rather  see  that  angel. 

Painted  by  the  tenderness  of  Dante, 

Would  we  not  ?  —  than  read  a  fresh  Inferno. 

VII 

You  and  I  will  never  see  that  picture. 
While  he  mused  on  love  and  Beatrice, 
While  he  softened  o'er  his  outlined  angel. 
In  they  broke,  those  "people  of  importance  "  : 
We  and  Bice  bear  the  loss  for  ever. 

VIII 

What  of  RafaeFs  sonnets,  Dante's  picture  ? 
This  :  no  artist  lives  and  loves,  that  longs  not 
Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 
[  219  ] 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

(Ah,  the  prize ! )  to  find  his  love  a  language 

Fit  and  fair  and  simple  and  sufficient  — 

Using  nature  that 's  an  art  to  others, 

Not,  this  one  time,  art  that  ^s  turned  his  nature. 

Ay,  of  all  the  artists  living,  loving, 

None  but  would  forego  his  proper  dowry,  — 

Does  he  paint  ?  he  fain  would  write  a  poem,  — 

Does  lie  write?  he  fain  would  paint  a  picture, 

Put  to  proof  art  alien  to  the  artist's. 

Once,  and  only  once,  and  for  one  only, 

So  to  be  the  man  and  leave  the  artist. 

Gain  the  man's  joy,  miss  the  artist's  sorrow. 

IX 

Wherefore  ?     Heaven's  gift  takes  earth's  abatement ! 
He  who  smites  the  rock  and  spreads  the  water. 
Bidding  drink  and  live  a  crowd  beneath  him, 
Even  he,  the  minute  makes  immortal. 
Proves,  perchance,  but  mortal  in  the  minute. 
Desecrates,  belike,  the  deed  in  doing. 
While  he  smites,  how  can  he  but  remember, 
So  he  smote  before,  in  such  a  peril. 

When  they  stood  and  mocked  —  '^  Shall  smiting  help  us?  " 
AVhen  they  drank  and  sneered  —  "A  stroke  is  easy  !  " 
When  they  wiped  their  mouths  and  went  their  journey. 
Throwing  him  for  thanks  —  "  But  drought  was  pleasant." 
Thus  old  memories  mar  the  actual  triumph ; 
Thus  the  doing  savors  of  disrelish  ; 
Thus  achievement  lacks  a  gracious  somewhat; 

[  2^0  ] 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

O'er-importuiied  brows  becloud  the  mandate. 

Carelessness  or  consciousness  —  the  gesture. 

For  he  bears  an  ancient  wrong  about  him, 

Sees  and  knows  again  those  phalanxed  faces, 

Hears,  yet  one  time  more,  the  ^customed  prelude  — 

"  How  should st  thou,  of  all  men,  smite,  and  save  us  ?  '* 

Guesses  what  is  like  to  prove  the  sequel  — 

"  Egypt^s  flesh-pots  —  nay,  the  drought  was  better/'' 

X 

Oh,  the  crowd  must  have  emphatic  warrant ! 
Theirs,  the  Sinai-forehead^s  cloven  brilliance. 
Right-arm's  rod-sweep,  tongue's  imperial  fiat. 
Never  dares  the  man  put  off  the  prophet. 

XI 

Did  he  love  one  face  from  out  the  thousands, 
(Were  she  Jethro's  daughter,  white  and  wifely, 
Were  she  but  the  ^Ethiopian  bondslave,) 
He  would  envy  yon  dumb  patient  camel. 
Keeping  a  reserve  of  scanty  water 
Meant  to  save  his  own  life  in  the  desert; 
Ready  in  the  desert  to  deliver 
(Kneeling  down  to  let  his  breast  be  opened) 
Hoard  and  life  together  for  his  mistress. 

XII 

I  shall  never,  in  the  years  remaining. 
Paint  you  pictures,  no,  nor  carve  you  statues, 

[  221  ] 


.*■.: 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

Make  you  music  that  should  all-express  me ; 

So  it  seems :  I  stand  on  my  attainment. 

This  of  verse  alone,  one  life  allows  me ; 

Yerse  and  nothing  else  have  I  to  give  you. 

Other  heights  in  other  lives,  God  willing : 

All  the  gifts  from  all  the  heights,  your  own,  Love ! 

XIII 

Yet  a  semblance  of  resource  avails  us  — 

Shade  so  finely  touched,  love's  sense  must  seize  it. 

Take  these  lines,  look  lovingly  and  nearly. 

Lines  I  write  the  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

He  who  works  in  fresco,  steals  a  hair-brush. 

Curbs  the  liberal  hand,  subservient  proudly. 

Cramps  his  spirit,  crowds  its  all  in  little. 

Makes  a  strange  art  of  an  art  familiar, 

Fills  his  lady's  missal-marge  with  flowerets. 

He  who  blows  thro'  bronze,  may  breathe  thro'  silver, 

Fitly  serenade  a  slumbrous  princess. 

He  who  writes,  may  write  for  once  as  I  do. 

XIV 

Love,  you  saw  me  gather  men  and  women. 
Live  or  dead  or  fashioned  by  my  fancy. 
Enter  each  and  all,  and  use  their  service. 
Speak  from  every  mouth,  —  the  speech,  a  poem. 
Hardly  shall  I  tell  my  joys  and  sorrows, 
Hopes  and  fears,  belief  and  disbelieving : 
I  am  mine  and  yours  —  the  rest  be  all  men's, 

[  222  ] 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

Karshish,  Cleon,  Norbert  and  the  fifty. 
Let  me  speak  this  once  in  my  true  person. 
Not  as  Lippo_,  Eoland  or  Andrea, 
Though  the  fruit  of  speech  be  just  this  sentence — 
Pray  you,  look  on  these  my  men  and  women, 
Take  and  keep  my  fifty  poems  finished ; 
Where  my  heart  lies,  let  my  brain  lie  also ! 
Poor  the  speech ;  be  how  I  speak,  for  all  things. 

XV 

Not  but  that  you  know  me  !  Lo,  the  moon's  self ! 
Here  in  London,  yonder  late  in  Florence, 
Still  we  find  her  face,  the  thrice-transfigured. 
Curving  on  a  sky  imbrued  with  color. 
Drifted  over  Piesole  by  twilight, 
Came  she,  our  new  crescent  of  a  hair^s-breadth. 
Full  she  flared  it,  lamping  Samminiato, 
Eounder  ^twixt  the  cypresses  and  rounder. 
Perfect  till  the  nightingales  applauded. 
Now,  a  piece  of  her  old  self,  impoverished. 
Hard  to  greet,  she  traverses  the  houseroofs. 
Hurries  with  unhandsome  thrift  of  silver. 
Goes  dispiritedly,  glad  to  finish. 

XVI 

What,  there's  nothing  in  the  moon  note-worthy  ? 
Nay  :  for  if  that  moon  could  love  a  mortal. 
Use,  to  charm  him  (so  to  fit  a  fancy) 
[  223  J 


It 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

All  her  magic  (^t  is  the  old  sweet  mythos), 

She  would  turn  a  new  side  to  her  mortal^ 

Side  unseen  of  herdsman,  huntsman,  steersman  — 

Blank  to  Zoroaster  on  his  terrace. 

Blind  to  Galileo  on  his  turret. 

Dumb  to  Homer,  dumb  to  Keats  —  him,  even ! 

Think,  the  wonder  of  the  moonstruck  mortal  — 

When  she  turns  round,  comes  again  in  heaven. 

Opens  out  anew  for  worse  or  better ! 

Proves  she  like  some  portent  of  an  iceberg 

Swimming  full  upon  the  ship  it  founders. 

Hungry  with  huge  teeth  of  splintered  crystals? 

Proves  she  as  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire 

Seen  by  Moses  when  he  climbed  the  mountain  ? 

Moses,  Aaron,  Nadab  and  Abihu 

Climbed  and  saw  the  very  God,  the  Highest, 

Stand  upon  the  paved  work  of  a  sapphire. 

Like  the  bodied  heaven  in  his  clearness 

Shone  the  stone,  the  sapphire  of  that  paved  work, 

When  they  ate  and  drank  and  saw  God  also  ! 

XVII 

What  were  soon  ?     None  knows,  none  ever  shall  know. 
Only  this  is  sure  —  the  sight  were  other, 
Not  the  raoon^s  same  side,  born  late  in  Florence, 
Dying  now  impoverished  here  in  London. 
God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face  the  world  with. 
One  to  show  a  woman  w  lun  he  loves  her ! 

[  224  ] 


2    > 


.tit; 


ONE   WORD   MORE 

XVIII 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you^  Love  ! 

This  to  you — yourself  my  moon  of  poets ! 

Ah,  but  that  ^s  the  world^s  side,  there  ^s  the  wonder, 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know  you ! 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  Avith  them  and  praise  you. 

Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 

But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them. 

Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight. 

Come  out  on  the  other  side,  the  novel 

Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of. 

Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

XIX 

Oh,  their  Eafael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it. 
Drew  one  angel  —  borne,  see,  on  my  bosom ! 

E.  B. 


r,\: 


15 


[  225  ] 


INDEX 


?*1 


i!iv 


Index 


Angelico,  Fra  (da  Fiesole),  36, 114, 

129. 
Apollo,  Statue  of,  Uffizi  Gallery,  109. 
Arezzo,  Province   of,    40 ;   town   of, 

181,  182,  183,  192. 
Arno,  four  bridges  over,  24. 

Baccio  Bandinelli's  statue  of  Gio- 
vanni della  Banda  Nere,  Piazza 
of  San  Lorenzo,  164. 

Baldovinetti,  Alesso,  Madonna  and 
Saints,  Uffizi  Gallery,  114. 

Bandiera,  the  brothers,  54. 

Bargello  chapel,  45. 

Beatrix,  45,  218. 

Bellosguardo,  site  of  Galileo's  villa, 
64. 

Bigordi,  Domenico,  114. 

Bridge  of  Santa  Trinita,  167. 

Bruuelleschi's  church,  San  Lorenzo. 
44. 

Buonarroti  (Michelangelo),  43,  62, 
115. 

Campanile  of  Giotto,  25,  105,  111, 

117. 
Carlo  Dolci,  115. 
Carmine,  Carmelite  cloister  of  the, 

121,126,  130. 
Casa  Guidi,  22,  39,  68,  77,  79,  82, 

94,  167. 
Cascine,  The,  99;  piazza  in  the,  99. 
Castellani,  163. 
Cellini's  Perseus,  43. 
Charles  Albert,  92. 
Charles   of  Anjou,   sees    Ciraabue's 

Virgin  and  Child,  34. 
Chiusi,  province  Siena,  163. 


Cimabue,  34,  35;  discovers  Giotto,  35. 
Circoli,  The,  71. 

Cosimo  Pater  Patriae,  121,  123;  his 
palace  (Palace  of  the  Medici),  129. 
Crystal  Palace,  London,  88-90. 

Dante,  44,  45,  218,  219,  225;  bust 

on  gate  of  San  Gallo,  60. 
Dante's  stone,  44,  45, 101,  116. 
Da  Vinci,  Leonardo,  108,  146. 
Dello  Delli,  108. 
Duomo,  Palazzo  del,  72,  117. 
Dying  Alexander,  The,  Uffizi  Gallery, 

109. 

Ferdinand  I.  de'  Medici,  Equestrian 
statue  of,  Piazza  dell'  Annunziata, 
149,  150.  157. 

Fiesole,  62,  137,  138,  223. 

Filicaja,  Vincenza  da,  23. 

Francis  L  of  France,  patron  of  An- 
drea del  Sarto,  142,  144,  145. 

Galileo's  Tower,  224. 

Gallo  gate,  60. 

Garibaldi,  Death  of  wife  and  child 
of,  91,  92. 

Ghiberti,  Lorenzo,  113. 

Ghirlandajo  (Domenico  Bigordi),  113. 

Giotto,  24,  36,  45,  58,  106,  111,  117; 
Last  Supper,  115;  Saints,  in  Chapel 
of  the  Medici,  Santa  Croce,  127. 

Glad  Borgo  (Borgo  Allegri),  34. 

Gualbert,  St.,  Altar  of,  Fiesole,  63. 

Guerazzi,  72,  75,  76. 

Guidi,  130. 

Guido  Reni,  218. 


•a- 


m 


.u 


[  229  ] 


INDEX 


Jerome,  St.,  Painting  of  by  Fra 
Lippo  Lippi,  Academy  of  Fine  Arts, 
123. 

Joconde,  by  Lionard,  in  the  Louvre, 
lfJ5. 

Lapaccia,  Monna,  124. 

Leopold,  Grand-duke,  41,  42,  68-70, 
75-77,  82. 

Lippino  Lippi,  114. 

Lippo  Lippi,  Fra,  121-134. 

Lippo  Lippi's,  Fra,  fresco  of  St.  Law- 
rence, Prato,  132;  altar-piece  for 
S.  Ambrogio,  133,  134;  painting 
of  St.  Jerome,  Academy  of  Fine 
Arts,  123. 

Loggia  dei  Lanzi,  43. 

Lorenzo  the  Magnificent,  32. 

Lucrezia,  wife  of  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
137-146. 

Machiavelli,  Niccolo,  34 
Margheritone,  36;  Crucifixion,  Santa 

Croce  church,  114. 
Massa-Carrara,  Province  of,  40. 
Mazziiu,  Giuseppe,  83,  86,  87. 
Metternich,  Prince,  46. 
Michelangelo   (see   also  Buonarroti), 

107,  141,  143,  144,  146. 
Michelangelo's  Tomb  of  the  Medici, 

25;  bust  of  Brutus,  43,  87;   snow 

statue  for  Pietro,  26,  27. 
Monaco,  Lorenzo,  114,  129. 
Mont  St.  Gothard,  116. 
Moreilo,  116,  140,  144. 

Niccolo  gate,  60. 

Niobe,  Group  of,  Uffizi  Gallery,  109. 

Novara,  80,  !)2. 

OONISSANTI,   116. 

Orcagna  (Orgagna),  the  brothers, 
Fresco  of  Inferno  by,  34,  116. 


Petka.ta,  Villa,  153. 

Petrarch's     bust     on    gate    of    San 

Niccolo,  60. 
Piazza  of  tlie  Grand-duke,  31. 
Pienza,  40. 


Pillar,  Piazza  Santa  Trinita,  167. 

Pisano,  Niccola  (Nicolo,  the  Pisan), 
113. 

Pisa,  Province  of,  40. 

Pitti  palace,  22,  38,  42,  45,  68. 

Pius  IX.  (Pio  Nono),  53,  54,  82,  83, 
85. 

Pollajolo,  114. 

Porta  Romana,  181. 

Prato  cathedral.  Frescos  of  the  Bap- 
tist in,  122. 

Racers,  Frieze  of  the,  109. 
Radetzky,  Count  Johann,  116. 
Raphael  (Raffael),  36,  62,  107,  141- 

144,  146;  Madonnas  by,  217,  218, 

225. 
Riccardi,  The   Palazzo,  Piazza  dell' 

Annunziata,  149,  150,  165. 
Robbia,  della,  156. 
Rossi,  Count,  86. 

Samminiato,  223. 

Sandro  Botticelli,  114. 

San  Felice,  Church  of,  22,  167,  181. 

San  Lorenzo,  Church  of,  25,  123,  165. 

San  Lorenzo,  Piazza  of,  164,  106. 

San  Spirito,  Church  of,  116. 

Santa  Croce  church,  44.  • 

Santa  Maria  Novella,  Church  of,  33.. 

Sarto,  Andrea  del,  137-146;  Ma- 
donna, Pitti  Galler.v,  139,  143; 
copy  of  portrait  of  Leo  X.,  140, 141 . 

Savonarola,  31,  32;  martyrdom  of, 
150. 

Siena  cathedral.  Tombs  of  Borgia 
and  Pope  Joan  in,  84. 

Siena,  Province  of,  40. 

Stefano,  108. 

Strozzi,  Palace  of  the,  167. 

Taddeo    Gaddi,    Church   of    Santa 

Maria  Novella,  114. 
Theseus,  Statue  of,    Uffizi    Gallery, 

109. 


Vallombuosa,  63. 
Vasari,  George,  108,  140. 
Via  Larga,  26,  150. 

[    230    ] 


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